


Pulling Gravity

by eatsumus



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Bottom Miya Atsumu, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friendship/Love, Headcanon, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Depression, Implied/Referenced Switching, Introspection, M/M, Mysophobia, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 30,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28814007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eatsumus/pseuds/eatsumus
Summary: But Miya was the sun and Kiyoomi wasstarvedfor light, for heat,for touch.Kiyoomi should have expected to be burned.He didn’t think it’d be this painful.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 44
Kudos: 291





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello, everyone! this is the fic where i make sakuatsu canon in the canon universe. please read the tags! i hope you all liked this ahaha /nervous  
> also: go [HERE](https://twitter.com/eatsumus/status/1350653385675046913?s=20) first for this fic's playlist, visuals and info.

It was in autumn;

Tokyo had always been a bustling city and that made it more suffocating, more _depressing_. A city that had millions of people in it and yet Kiyoomi felt like he was all alone, sitting in a dorm with fellow boys that were too brash, too loud, too— _not_ like Kiyoomi.

It was lonely.

And yet it felt like he shouldn’t be. Lonely, that was. Why should he be lonely when he’d gotten anything that he’d ever wanted since he was born? A family that doted on him, money that was easily given to him, grades that rarely dropped, and a few trusted friends.

Kiyoomi had nothing to ask for; he had _everything._

And yet it swallowed him; this darkness that was so encompassing, this abyss that was so deep he feared it might swallow him whole, this hollow feeling in his chest that always came and rarely went away, messing his emotions, _his feelings_.

A man that had everything and yet—

Yet loneliness was ever present. Like a shadow; a cloud that never left him alone.

A devil on his shoulders.

**[ High School: _Itachiyama Institute, #10 Jersey_ ]**

It was in autumn;

Tokyo had always been a bustling city and that made it more hectic, more _loud_. Walking down the path to the gym, the brown leaves kept on falling from the trees lining the sidewalk and every time Kiyoomi stepped on them, they made this _crunch_ sound that was so satisfying it made Kiyoomi’s chest feel lighter, just a tad bit happier.

Autumn in Tokyo had always been beautiful and every year it came, it had Kiyoomi hoping for _something_ to happen; something that would shift his world, like gravity shifting the planets, like dark matter moving the universe, like _fate_ finally giving him a reason to _breathe_.

Perhaps he should have stopped watching all those space videos on the internet. But it was something to do in the quiet of the house; something to focus on other than the loneliness wrapping around him. Something to keep him busy other than his homework.

That had been his routine. Until volleyball came to him.

Kiyoomi had started to play volleyball a few years ago, had come with Motoya to his after club activities out of curiosity. At first, it was only a _hobby,_ something that would keep him out of the house and connect with kids his age, burn the rest of his free time like all the other children. But then it became serious because Kiyoomi was incapable of leaving anything _unfinished;_ he must see it through the end to feel _accomplished_. Puzzles, video games, movies, studying, and then _volleyball_ , the current hobby that had turned into something precious to him.

Itachiyama was a brilliant school institute that offered a lot of subjects and had a particularly good volleyball club. And that was why Motoya and him chose Itachiyama Institute when they had to pick a high school on the last year of middle school. Different schools had tried to recruit them but both have decided for Itachiyama, the reigning champion in Tokyo.

Kiyoomi was only a first year but he had already made a name for himself in middle school. Everyone said that he had the _talent,_ the _drive_ and the _height_ and therefore put him on the starting lineup to _gain_ experience. Motoya was the same, a tall libero always practicing with Kiyoomi who was an outside hitter. They were a team, of some sort.

It was _good_ ; Kiyoomi practiced a lot, felt himself breathe more easily as the days passed by. Their _seniors_ were kind and were always there to help them, to _nurture_ their talents, as the coach had said.

It was fun.

Mostly.

Until one autumn;

That Kiyoomi was set to play against _Inarizaki_ from _Hyōgo_ for the very first time. He’d heard of them; a solid team, a talented setter, a powerful ace. Kiyoomi had watched some of their games; had studied their mannerisms, their plays, the way they interact with each other.

Miya Atsumu was talented for a first year student who was already the starting setter for the team. Miya Osamu, his twin, was the same. Ojirou Aran was the team’s ace, a second year. And the rest were what Kiyoomi dubbed _minor characters_. Talented _yes_ but they didn’t stand out to him.

Kiyoomi had entered the locker room that day and quietly changed into his jersey, a bright neon green and yellow that Kiyoomi tolerated only because it made him less _gloomy_. Colors could shift moods, right? Right.

The mood in the locker room was brimming with positive energy; it was cheery, _hyped_ because they had been requesting to play against _Inarizaki_ for a while now and only _recently_ that Inarizaki had responded and driven to Tokyo for a practice match against them. An honour, was what their coach had called it. So of course, they _had_ to beat them.

Kiyoomi had expected a lot from them.

And they gave him that and _more_.

It was in autumn;

That Sakusa Kiyoomi’s world shifted once again, but more _intense,_ a punch in the gut. Like earth turning upside down, like planets falling from their axis, like skipping stones and have it skipped five times. _Unexpected_.

When Miya Atsumu served, it was to a definite silence. When Miya Atsumu served, it was straight to Kiyoomi’s hands. When Miya Atsumu served, it was followed by Kiyoomi falling on his ass, ball bouncing from his fists, heading out of bounds.

It was in autumn;

That Sakusa Kiyoomi found the human incarnation of the sun; a bright smile that crinkled on the corners of hazel—almost golden—eyes. Hair dyed sloppy blonde sat atop his head.

It was in autumn when Miya Atsumu fucked up Sakusa Kiyoomi’s gravity.

And it was in autumn that Kiyoomi felt an intense emotion deep within his chest.

He swallowed that emotion back, set his world back to where it belonged, pulling ropes and threads of fate, like what Miya Atsumu had done hadn’t affected him.

Kiyoomi pretended he wasn’t _moved_.

*****

Miya Atsumu was a storm.

That was the only definition Kiyoomi could come up with. Miya Atsumu wrecked havoc and left with no remorse. Kiyoomi had been one of the people who was left in the dust, staring at his back after shaking hands with him when _Itachiyama_ had lost to _Inarizaki_ as early as _June_ his first year in _Itachiyama_.

An _upset_ they had called it but Kiyoomi knew it wasn’t.

Miya was intelligent, always scheming. He threw Itachiyama for a loop and more, surprising them with sudden changed plays again and again. And every time, it felt like Kiyoomi was playing volleyball anew, an odd emotion tickling the pit of his stomach

Miya Atsumu was a reckless player who loved volleyball to an extent that when Kiyoomi gave back the serve that was given to him and Miya Atsumu missed on receiving it, he didn’t even _frown_ like the other players whom Kiyoomi had stolen several points from. Instead, Miya Atsumu had looked at him with awe— _childish awe_ like he’d just seen the best move of all time. He’d looked so— _happy_ that Kiyoomi had felt _jealous_ of him; of this happiness that was bred from the smallest of thing. It was infuriating, seeing someone love something so _fully_ that even the chance of losing had nothing on it. Kiyoomi was _baffled_ and yet it made him breathless; that intense love towards something, _volleyball_ , that even him couldn’t muster to feel.

Because volleyball was just a sport. It was something _fleeting_.

And Kiyoomi might like volleyball but Miya Atsumu treated it like it was his life; like it was the air that he breathed, like his happiness depended on it, like he couldn’t live with it.

Kiyoomi was jealous of him.

And it had stayed like that for years.  
  


**[ Middle School: _Okojo Middle School, #12 Jersey_ ]**

  
But before Miya Atsumu, there was Ushijima Wakatoshi.

If Miya Atsumu _moved_ Kiyoomi, Ushijima Wakatoshi made Kiyoomi _want_.

Want more of volleyball, of the court, of _challenge._

He was the reason why Kiyoomi _chose_ to continue playing volleyball, to enrol in _Itachiyama_ to be _better_.

Ushijima Wakatoshi came before Miya Atsumu, like a tsunami. If Miya Atsumu was a storm, Ushijima Wakatoshi was the quiet tsunami that splashed over Kiyoomi’s life like he was meant to do it, like he was _supposed_ to add to the raging emotions inside Kiyoomi’s little fragile being.

When Kiyoomi played against Ushijima Wakatoshi, he was just in middle school, playing for his the school team, _Okojo_ , and volleyball was still a hobby that he was trying to scratch off him, like an unrelenting itch on the very core of his being. Kiyoomi hadn’t cared about his opponents, playing matches after matches, winning and losing and winning again like it was pre-determined for Kiyoomi to be a _winner_ at the end.

He’d met Ushijima Wakatoshi by the bathroom, seen him wipe his wet hands with a handkerchief, watched him fold said handkerchief in the damp side after using it which had made Kiyoomi’s still growing _neat freakness—_ as some of his teammates had called it—feel in _awe_. The thought that went through Kiyoomi’s mind that very second was _‘oh, someone who was the same as me’_ and that made him feel less _alone_.

Ushijima Wakatoshi made Kiyoomi feel like the world wasn’t as grey as he thought it was. And that feeling only cemented deep within him when it was his turn to play against the other.

Kiyoomi had been amazed; Ushijima Wakatoshi had a mean spike, a _south paw_ they called him, a left-handed volleyball player, one that was _rare_. Kiyoomi had felt himself _swallow_ hard after hearing that and swallowed even _harder_ when Ushijima’s serve met his soft clenched fists, the ball bouncing off his hands and out of bounds, his teammates unable to save it or keep it in play.

Right then and there, Kiyoomi felt his insides _quiver_ in excitement, like volleyball _to him_ had been given a _meaning_ , like Ushijima Wakatoshi had thrown a bucket of ice cold water on his head, making him realise that volleyball had more to it than having bendy wrists and a strong _spike_.

It had made Kiyoomi _burn_.

And that burn that Ushijima Wakatoshi had alighted within him was lit even further by Miya Atsumu.

It had made Kiyoomi _feel_.  
  


**[ High School: _Itachiyama Institute, #10 Jersey_ ]**

  
In High School, Kiyoomi had cemented himself as one of the best. After a lot of trial and error and spending days and weeks improving himself, playing volleyball more than he spent time with his family, Kiyoomi had learned to _love_ volleyball, to an extent that it was all he could think about day in and day out. Through the years he’d learned to love how the ball would bounce on his knuckles, the rubber creating a pink indent on his skin. He’d learned to love the sound of squeaking shoes on the rubbered floor of the court, learned to like the bruises on his knees from diving for the ball.

He’d learned _so much_ because he wanted to— to _feel_ that joy in Miya Atsumu’s face, he wanted to see that on his own face too. He wanted to be the _best spiker,_ better than Wakatoshi whom he’d become closer with after playing against each other a couple of times and attending the same volleyball camps together.

From first year of high school and up until he’d graduated, Kiyoomi had wondered why it was _Miya Atsumu_ that had burned him hotter when Wakatoshi _was there_ , beside him and taunting him to become an even better player.

But Kiyoomi had realised that as much as Wakatoshi _loved_ volleyball, he showed it differently than how Miya Atsumu did. Wakatoshi showed it in his _strength_ , the way his spikes were as powerful as the aura he emitted, the way he demanded attention without even seeking it. He was _strong_ , overwhelming and ground-breaking.

Wakatoshi had been with Kiyoomi for so long that it should have been _him_ but Kiyoomi was surrounded by strong people; he’d seen _strength_ in a bunch of people but he’d rarely seen someone who was as bright as Miya Atsumu when he played volleyball.

Wakatoshi had Kiyoomi wanting to be _better_ but Miya Atsumu made Kiyoomi want to _enjoy_ volleyball even if he wasn’t the best at it. To enjoy something without finishing it first, an _unfinished_ puzzle that will continue until Kiyoomi had lost for a million times and until his bones were weak and until he couldn’t play anymore.

Miya Atsumu made Kiyoomi want to enjoy the moment, even if it was a losing game, he’d wanted to _enjoy_ it and smile at whatever the result was without feeling disappointed in himself. Because losing is inevitable but Kiyoomi hadn’t yet learned to not beat himself up over it.

Just like his first interhigh.

When the volleyball dropped and the score was counted, the game ending with _Itachiyama’s_ loss, Kiyoomi had been left with regrets. _He should have done this, he should have moved faster, he should have spiked harder, he shouldn’t have hesitated_.

The hollow in his chest would then grow, a blackhole that was always waiting to swallow him whole.

But then he heard Miya Atsumu’s childish laugh from the next court and it had Kiyoomi gulping regrets. He’d turned his head, see Miya Atsumu crying and laughing at the same time because they, too, lost against an even better team. His face might be full of sadness but his eyes were full of content, like losing a game was _okay_ , it was fine; _it was only a matter of time._

Kiyoomi was jealous of him.

How did it feel, to love something so wholeheartedly that even losing was _amazing_? How, how, _how?_

Kiyoomi had been jealous and so he _worked_ even harder.

Harder than Wakatoshi, harder than Miya Atsumu, harder than _anyone_ he knew.

Because Kiyoomi had wanted to fill that loneliness living inside his chest and he’d succeeded. After years of feeling like he’d been walking with a grey cloud above his head, he’d finally succeeded filling that hole. _In a way_ , he’d succeeded. _In a way_ , he felt happy.

_In a way._

Because it was hard to touch the ball sometimes; it was hard to dive on the floor where it felt like there was a big trap that would swallow him whole before he could even touch the ball. When he was a kid, Kiyoomi used to play the ‘ _the floor is a lava’_ game with his siblings where he’d jump from pillow to pillow, from chair to chair, from his father to his mother’s lap. He used to play that silly game and looking back at it, he had fun. _Those were the days._

But now everything was a trap; the ball was a trap, the net was a trap, his teammates were traps, _he_ himself was a trap.

Kiyoomi didn’t know how it happened; or perhaps he’d just forgotten. Having a complicated childhood had made Kiyoomi try to forget a lot of things; he’d kept the happy ones— some of them, and he’d kept the normal ones— some of them, and he’d kept the sad ones— two or three of them.

Namely, when his parents divorced, when he’d moved back and forth houses—a weekend with his father, a week with his mother—that were barely cleaned because both were a mess and Kiyoomi was a casualty in the midst of their silent war. Kiyoomi could remember looking around, feel his mouth dry, look at his mess of a father, and felt his skin crawl.

Kiyoomi had kept a lot of memories but he’d also forgotten a lot of them.

It was okay.

Who needed memories? Not him.

 _Not him_.

And yet, when the therapist had asked, “ _Since when_?”

Kiyoomi had blanked out because he didn’t _know_. He didn’t want to _know_ or _remember_. He’d looked at his gloved hands, then looked up at the woman, then down to his gloved hands again, breathing through the mask covering half of his face.

Hating dirt and _thinking_ that everything was contaminated were different from each other. Hating dirt was easily fixed: wipe it clean and it was gone, out of sight, out of touch. _Thinking_ everything was contaminated wasn’t easily fixed because Kiyoomi had tried to washed his hands once, twice, _thrice_ when he touched an unfamiliar knob that he later found out was _greasy—_ _dirty,_ and it only made him want to claw his skin out or shower in the hottest water possible. That horrible feeling of touching that cold metal that other people had also touched had stayed on his mind for the _whole day,_ like a ghost touch always stuck to his hands, and it felt _horrible_.

 _Mysophobia_ they called it.

Kiyoomi had never put a name to this _thing_ , he feared that if he actually _did_ that it would become worse, would come haunting him every second of the day. Now though, seeing a therapist after being unable to touch the balls that his team had touched, he thought it wasn’t that bad naming this— _quirk_ of his.

It wasn’t a quirk. It was a _mental illness_.

Although he was distressed about it at first—feeling like something was wrong with him, thinking that he had to stop playing volleyball, feeling _ashamed_ that he had it—his therapist and family had helped him come to terms that it wasn’t something to be ashamed of. He was still a normal person, nothing _wrong_ with him.

But it did make Kiyoomi think about his future. What about volleyball? What about future lovers? What about friends? Did that mean he had to live with this forever, had to live his whole life rarely touching bare skin on his fingers?

That caused him to yearn even more for a future where he _could_ freely touch something, even someone, without overthinking it; without intrusive thoughts nagging at him every second of the day.

And so Kiyoomi had to do something about it. He’d only learned how to love volleyball; only learned how _amazing_ it was to score a service ace and how amazing it was to share that joy with his teammates.

He’d only learned how nice it was to receive high-fives and a ruffle to the hair for blocking someone from scoring.

Those times, the hole in his chest wasn’t so deep, wasn’t too painful because it felt like he had _people_ with him.

And that was why Kiyoomi had to fix himself.

He started _exposure therapy_.

Exposure therapy was harder than Kiyoomi thought it would be. Sometimes, Kiyoomi had to stop because it was too much. Sometimes, it was okay, even _freeing_. But then he’d come home and the thought of what he’d touched the whole day would nag at him and—

Motoya would be there for him, a constant, whenever Kiyoomi needed someone to talk to. His cousin was understanding and Kiyoomi appreciated him for that and for more.

“Kiyo?” Motoya had answered the phone one evening, when Kiyoomi came home after a therapy session.

“Sorry,” Kiyoomi had said, voice almost a whisper. “Can you distract me for a while? The therapy…”

“Of course, Kiyo,” Motoya had answered, willing to help his cousin. “So, today, we watched the _Inarizaki_ versus _Nekoma_ game and wow! Miya Atsumu used _two_ types of serve! He did a spike serve on the first half and a jump serve on the second half. I can’t believe…”

And on Motoya went about Miya Atsumu. Kiyoomi would have been _jealous_ that his cousin was so in _awe_ of Miya Atsumu’s now _dual wielder_ title but he didn’t mind at all. Because Miya Atsumu was also a constant to Kiyoomi, one that he would always think about; that bright grin on his face.

As Motoya continued gushing about the game, Kiyoomi started relaxing, imagining the feeling of volleyball on his bare hand, wanting to go back in time and fix this problem of his when it still wasn’t as serious as it was now. If he had then he wouldn’t had to miss practice twice a week and make up for it on the weekends.

But it was okay.

He was in second year now, he was one of the top aces in High School volleyball and he’d found that _motivation_ to work harder. Both as himself and as _Itachiyama’s_ ace.

He was going to be okay.

*

It was in December that Kiyoomi saw Miya Atsumu once again. Although they’d seen each other a couple of times in matches, _Itachiyama_ and _Inarizaki_ hadn’t played each other since their practice game. Inarizaki might be a strong team but there were even stronger team than them; namely, _Fukurōdani_. First year Interhigh, Inarizaki had lost to them and that was when Kiyoomi had seen Miya Atsumu’s half-laughing and half-crying face. That was the very first of many to come.

It was an honour to be invited to the Youth Training Camp. With Motoya beside him, Kiyoomi had headed to _Ajinomoto National Training Centre_ and had met Kageyama Tobio for the first time.

Kageyama Tobio had been the talk since middle school, only a year younger than Kiyoomi. He was a _genius_ setter, the _king of the court_. Kiyoomi thought Iizuna- _san_ was better.

Youth Camp went like this;

A brief introduction followed by warming up and drills to heat their bodies which was then followed by two versus two practice matches to get them used to each other. After that, they were divided into two groups for a practice match against each other.

Kiyoomi was teamed up with Kageyama Tobio as the setter. Miya Atsumu was across from him, looking smug and cocky, as always. It was just a bit infuriating to Kiyoomi, that Miya Atsumu had the audacity to _fuck up_ his axis when he looked like this cocky brained asshole whose only redeeming quality was being High School’s best setter.

( Kiyoomi ignored the huge fact that Miya Atsumu wasn’t only cocky, he was _talented_ , and he made Kiyoomi yearn to play _more_. )

Admittedly, after losing to Inarizaki, Kiyoomi had researched Miya Atsumu. How couldn’t he? He was someone who’d put a footprint on Kiyoomi’s being without even knowing it. And through reading and watching interviews, even watching more matches than necessary, Kiyoomi had deducted that Miya Atsumu was a complicated player and an even more complicated human being. He’d glare at the audience, he’d smirk at his opponent, he’d laugh at a missed serve, he’d fight with his twin, he’d cry when he lost, he’d smile while crying—

He was a dichotomy of everything that Kiyoomi found _troublesome_.

And yet, even over a year from when he’d officially met him, Kiyoomi was still stuck on the _joy_ on Miya Atsumu’s face when he’d ruined _Itachiyama_ with his service aces and effortless setting form.

Now, here, playing against him for the very first time after a long time, Kiyoomi looked at Miya Atsumu’s face, trying to decipher his emotions. But Kiyoomi could only see a calculative expression on his face.

Miya Atsumu was always planning, Kiyoomi had thought.

It was as suspicious as it was griping.

How infuriating.

And because Kiyoomi couldn’t stand Miya Atsumu’s face, he’d spiked towards him, smirking at the setter’s stunned expression.

 _Good_ , _feel the same as I felt when you’d done it to me,_ Kiyoomi thought, tilting his head, smirk taunting.

Miya Atsumu had retaliated, the ball whooshing past his head, just a few centimetres from his right ear. Kiyoomi had turned to the ball quickly, wanting to keep it in play but Miya had spiked close to the line, a risk not everyone was willing to take.

“Miya-san, good serve!”

“Miya-san, that jump serve was amazing!”

“Miya-san…”

“Miya-san…”

Kiyoomi had turned to Miya, glared at the setter and clicked his tongue. What a troublesome person.

Not for the first time, Kiyoomi had asked himself if he was just swept by the moment when he’d played against _Inarizaki_ in his first year. Because Miya Atsumu was different now, more confident than before, less a _joyful_ player, more an annoying opponent.

That same day, after practice finished and he’d confronted Kageyama Tobio about Wakatoshi losing to his team, Kiyoomi had resolved himself to forget that image of Miya Atsumu’s bright grin that had always been embedded in his mind.

Because he shouldn’t cling to people; to memories, to dreams.

He should continue working harder to his goal. Winning brought joy and joy brought happiness. If Kiyoomi couldn’t achieve what Miya Atsumu had, then he will make his own.

It was only a matter of time.

That was what he intended to do.

But the next day of training camp, Miya Atsumu had thrown him a perfect set that had Kiyoomi wishing for _more_. The ball sat perfectly on his hand when he spiked; it was _light_ and _heavy_ at the same time as it connected with his palm. It felt like strings were attached to it, _to him_ , moving him and making him spike a mean score. The ball bounded on the rubbered floor loudly and when Kiyoomi turned to Miya Atsumu, it was to a familiar bright grin and an exclaim of,

“Sakusa-san! Nice kill!”

Once again, Kiyoomi felt himself _burn;_ hotter than the summer, colder than the winter.

For a moment, Kiyoomi had forgotten that human beings could be multifaceted. Miya Atsumu was one of them; one part an asshole, one part a childish brat, another part a cunning player.

Kiyoomi swallowed and looked at Miya Atsumu for a short beat before rolling his eyes, scoffing a,

“What do you expect.”

Miya Atsumu had laughed then, throwing his head back like what Kiyoomi had said was funny. What was so funny about it?

“I expect nothing less from one of Japan’s top three aces!” Miya Atsumu had exclaimed as he settled on his place on the court.

Kiyoomi frowned at him, ignored his last jab—was it sarcastic? was it genuine?—and focused on the practice game.

Youth Camp ended quickly.

Kiyoomi had struggled with the _public_ showers and even more with the unfamiliar environment. Had they sanitized the rooms? What about the training equipments? Do they clean the bathrooms every hour? These thoughts had plagued Kiyoomi often but it was quickly brushed away by thinking of what his therapist had taught him.

Breathe in, breathe out. He was fine.

Exposure therapy had helped Kiyoomi this far.

At the end of Youth Camp, he’d gotten used to the facilities, less careful of touching things yet still fixated on _making sure_ his mask was on when not playing. His gloves never saw the light of day because he was either touching a volleyball or had his hands inside his jacket’s pockets.

He was okay.

Now, they were heading home and Kiyoomi was ready to bathe for an hour or two in the safety of his house before heading to the dorms the next day.

Kiyoomi breathed in and out through his mask, wishing to take it off but fearing that his _mysophobia_ would act up if he did so. He sighed and continued to walk with Motoya.

“Sakusa-san!”

Kiyoomi paused and turned, only to meet Miya’s bright smiling eyes. Motoya, beside him, also paused, curious.

“What?”

Miya grinned, clutching the straps of his backpack. “I’ll meet ya in Interhigh, right?”

Kiyoomi frowned, “Of course, Miya-san. Don’t lose to Fukurōdani again.”

Miya rolled his eyes, “We’re better this year! Kita-san is our captain now.”

“Whatever,” Kiyoomi replied, uninterested.

Miya laughed and reached out—to pat, to slap, to… _touch_ —but before he could touch Kiyoomi, Kiyoomi flinched, an obvious action that had Miya Atsumu pausing on his actions, hand frozen in the air.

Kiyoomi cursed himself. If Miya Atsumu didn’t think he was already a _freak_ he was probably thinking it now. Kiyoomi sighed to himself. It was okay. One more person who thought of him like that was nothing. He was used to it.

And he was getting better.

Kiyoomi was okay.

“Oh,” Miya blinked, looked at his hands like they were unfamiliar to him. He looked back up at Kiyoomi then shrugged, said, “Sorry, Sakusa-san. Force of habit.” Kiyoomi shrugged back, pretended it didn’t affect him. Then Miya laughed as he retracted his hand and waved, “Let’s meet again. I’m looking forward to seeing yer gross spike once again.”

Before Kiyoomi could reply, Miya walked away, skipping and humming to himself. Kiyoomi watched him, brows furrowed.

“My spike is not gross,” Kiyoomi muttered, late.

Motoya snickered, “It is though, Kiyo.”

“Shut up.”

“Hmm.”

And that was their last meeting.

Because the next Interhigh found Inarizaki beaten by _Karasuno_ and it was in this game that Kiyoomi saw the extent of Miya Atsumu’s talents. The court was his to command, his teammates was his to play, like a puppet master. He was their conductor and they were his players.

He burned brighter than the sun and Kiyoomi had felt himself flinch, feeling that forgotten emotion deep within him once again.

Kiyoomi might love volleyball but Miya Atsumu treated volleyball as love; one to nurture, one to enjoy, one to always _treasure_.

It had Kiyoomi clenching his fists.

Because once again, Miya Atsumu had shown him how reckless he was and what a wreckage he could become.

Miya Atsumu was a storm and he’d always left Kiyoomi _yearning_ for more; to wreck him, to ruin him, to pull and push him upside down and inside out.

A hope that was granted years later.

( _Itachiyama had lost and it had Kiyoomi feeling remorseful. Seeing Iizuna-san cry was heartbreaking and yet, it only made Kiyoomi want to work harder._

_Because losing was inevitable and what was important was to enjoy the moment._

_They win the next Interhigh.)_

_( Inarizaki came third. )_

**[ College: _Chuo University, #15 Jersey_ ]**

  
Kiyoomi had always been careful. He was a careful person who made routines and rules for him to follow in his everyday life. In short, he was a creature of habit.

When he was in college, he majored in Health and Sports Science to learn more about how his body works and to prevent injury in the future. Albeit interesting, Kiyoomi had lived the whole four years in an autopilot of some sort.

Everyday, he’d wake up early, at exactly six in the morning. He’d eaten breakfast at exactly six thirty and had left his apartment at precisely seven o’clock. He walked to school from his apartment outside campus, a short walk that took him fifteen minutes to his lecture hall. It was a mundane routine that he religiously followed, not only because it kept him sane but because it distracted him from thoughts that always seemed to plague him even though they had nothing to do with his life _now_.

Playing volleyball while studying in University was a stressful experience. If Kiyoomi hadn’t made his routines, he would have ended up a mess already. Or a semblance of it.

Classes went on for about half the day, four days a week. After classes, Kiyoomi went home, changed into his practice clothes and ran to the gym, always the first one there. He’d be at practice until around nine o’clock, then running home to shower and cook some dinner.

It was as boring as days could get.

But Kiyoomi had enjoyed it nonetheless. Because he could play volleyball; it was the only constant in his life even when he was studying, the hum of his television playing a recorded volleyball game a soft background while he reads pages after pages from a thick book.

Volleyball had become Kiyoomi’s constant and motivation.

And through volleyball he’d also made new friends that supported him for who he was; even his _mysophobia_. They closely reminded Kiyoomi of _Itachiyama_ and that had made him feel warm, _accepted_.

“Kiyo-san, what’re you doing for Christmas?” Naoya, the setter of the team, asked while wiping sweat from his forehead.

They’d just finished practice and were only stretching now. Kiyoomi was on the floor, stretching his arms, his wrists, then his legs while droplets of sweat still dripped down his chin. He looked up at Naoya, humming.

“I don’t know,” Kiyoomi answered, honest.

Naoya was his age, tall and dark-haired with an undercut. He had a penchant for asking everyone to go out every weekend which had Kiyoomi always wondering where he got the time or energy to _party_ from _._

Kiyoomi had guessed it must be that college experience he’d prattled about the first month they played together. But it had been almost three years already and well— Naoya had stayed the extrovert of the team.

Naoya plopped down on the floor close to him and had this been three years ago, Kiyoomi had probably flinched and shuffled far but exposure therapy had helped curb his _mysophobia_ and Kiyoomi only had to wear mask in public these days with a small bottle of hand sanitiser and wet wipes inside his pockets.

So when Naoya sat close to him, Kiyoomi only continued to stretch, bending his wrists here and there.

“Then, want to go out?” Naoya asked, charming smile on his face.

Kiyoomi blinked, turned to Naoya who was looking at him expectantly. Straightening up, Kiyoomi furrowed his brows because it was _Christmas_ and wasn’t it supposed to be special? Although to Kiyoomi’s family, welcoming New Year’s together was more important, a lot of people still liked to celebrate Christmas together. Motoya had once told him it was _the spirit_ of it or whatever that meant.

“Go out where?” Kiyoomi questioned, curious.

He didn’t have any plans for Christmas and maybe, hanging out with someone would make the day less gloomy, less boring.

“Don’t know. Dinner or some drinks,” Naoya answered, more chirpy now than earlier.

“Nao! Stop flirting with Kiyo!” Kou, their opposite hitter, exclaimed; loud enough for everyone in the gym to hear.

Another one piped in, “Kiyo, don’t listen to Nao! He was just looking for a new boyfriend.”

Kiyoomi blinked at the words before turning to Naoya who was now blushing, cheeks blooming red.

“I’m not, Kou! Shut the fuck up,” Naoya grumbled, rubbing a hand on his right eye, a habit that Kiyoomi knew he did when embarrassed.

Kiyoomi had shrugged and answered, making everyone freeze in silence, “Sure, let’s go out, Naoya-san.”

Naoya had snapped his head towards Kiyoomi so fast Kiyoomi feared he might get whiplash. His smile was blinding and the blush on his face was as bright as their jersey. He looked gorgeous.

“Seriously?” Naoya gasped then clutched Kiyoomi’s biceps, “You’re not joking, right, Kiyo-san? You’ll go out with me?”

“On Christmas,” Kiyoomi clarified.

“Of course!” Naoya cheered.

Later that evening, while running back to his apartment, Kiyoomi let himself get lost in his thoughts.

Kiyoomi had never… considered Naoya. He’d considered a lot of people in terms of romantic and sexual relationship. But not Naoya. In all the years they’d played together, he’d never thought of him as someone Kiyoomi could—or would—sleep together with. But perhaps that was because Naoya was a teammate and normally, Kiyoomi wouldn’t… _do_ anything with them. But Naoya was a good person and Kiyoomi _could_ try.

_Maybe._

Kiyoomi wasn’t a prude and part of his exposure therapy was to try touching people in long periods of time. It might have been— unethical of him to use people for his own gain but he’d always respected them; he’d always told them that he was undergoing therapy and whatever relationship they had was only _physical_. Some of them were weirded out at first but had always warmed up to him after. A lot of them had been eager for some reason that Kiyoomi didn’t want to know but was forced to hear from one of them.

“You’re handsome so it doesn’t matter,” was what one of his partners had told him in a café, reaching out to hold his hand.

Kiyoomi had flinched then, the contact unfamiliar but the more time passed, the less guarded Kiyoomi was. It was— liberating, to be able to touch someone freely and to be touched back.

Innocent touches had turned into sexual ones and Kiyoomi hadn’t stopped the advances. He was in it for pleasure too; body warmth a luxury to someone like him who’d barely touched a person his whole middle school and high school years. It was a luxury and so, he _savoured_ it.

First there were females only.

Females were soft. They made cute sounds that had Kiyoomi always feeling endeared. And when Kiyoomi had buried his face on their necks, muffling a moan, they’d clutch at his back, like he was their anchor keeping them from floating away. They feel _good_.

Then males came and Kiyoomi was shown another world. He’d fought with his sexuality, swallowed fear, and told his family because a broken home wouldn’t break again. He’d told them he liked men and women and it would stay like that and no one could change it. Kiyoomi had learned a lot about what sexuality actually was; by talking to people on the internet, by researching because he’d _felt_ wrong at first, by reading books and even _mangas_ that showed him that what he was feeling was _right_.

He wasn’t wrong.

It went better than Kiyoomi had expected and since then he’d breathed out a sigh of relief and explored his sexuality more. Explored more of who he was outside of volleyball and being an athlete.

And so came the males who were brave enough to approach Kiyoomi in the university café. They were shy at first, stuttering and asking if he was _the_ Sakusa Kiyoomi because _oh god, i love your games! i come to your games all the time!_ A lot of them were semi-fans who were into sports like him and some of them were random friends of friends or course mates.

Males were hard. They made grunting sounds that had Kiyoomi feeling even more aroused. And when Kiyoomi pulled them closer, mouth attached to their jaws, a hand on their hips, they’d clutch his shoulders, like they wanted to keep him, a sand that was hard to grasp. They feel _good_.

And males were rarely _clingy_. Kiyoomi didn’t hate clingy people, especially females, per se because not all of them were but— Kiyoomi liked his personal space, he liked it when his phone didn’t always _ping_ with notifications, he liked it when he could have peace. And it may be that Kiyoomi chose _clingy_ female partners because their warmth always permitted his cold body and their touches were comforting but Kiyoomi had always made it a rule to tell them first and foremost that their sexual relationship would only be that, a sexual relationship.

A lot of them seemed to think he was lying.

And maybe, Kiyoomi was or was not.

Sometimes Kiyoomi wondered if he should _settle down_ , like a normal person. But then he’d feel a pull on his gut, like it was _wrong_ , it wasn’t the right time, he was only _using_ them.

It didn’t feel right.

And so Kiyoomi had lived his whole college life as a single man who always had a few masks stashed inside his pockets. The masks were sometimes joined by packets of condoms and lube, sometimes lighter and cigarettes, a few times chapsticks and lipbalms. And all the time it was joined by a hand sanitiser and wet wipes.

Safe to say, Kiyoomi’s pockets were, most of the time, full.

He could only wish for his heart to be the same.

It will come.

Someday.

The Christmas date with Naoya went as well as Kiyoomi had expected.

They went to dinner, they walked around Ginza, they went to a hotel and they fucked a total of two times.

And that happened a couple more times. The fucking that was. Naoya was an— _interesting_ person. He hadn’t bat an eyelash when Kiyoomi said that he wasn’t looking for a relationship. He’d only shrugged and took a drag from his cigarette, the after sex nicotine burned deep into their routine.

“Kiyo, I just broke up with my boyfriend,” Naoya had said. “I do want to get back with him but…”

“I heard he went to study abroad,” Kiyoomi had added, the pause a little unnerving.

Naoya had laughed, pressed his cigarette on the ashtray and straddled Kiyoomi’s lap, sitting on top of his dick. He took Kiyoomi’s own cigarette from him, threw that into the ashtray too and wrapped Kiyoomi’s arms around his waist.

“Yeah,” Naoya replied, breaking the silence. “He did and I still love him but life is a bitch and I’m here so will you comfort me?”

Kiyoomi had sighed and proceeded to fuck him.

Lonely people had their own coping mechanisms.

Naoya and Kiyoomi were the same peas in a pod.

They comfort each other.

Kiyoomi had graduated in the spring of 2018, with the cherry blossom petals falling on his shoulders.

His brother and sister were there, as well as his mother. His father was on a business trip, unable to attend. Kiyoomi hadn’t expected anything from his parents, if he was honest, but his mother being there for him did make him a little bit emotional. It was nice, surrounded by his family. Motoya, too, had come, bearing gifts and a cheerful smile. Kiyoomi had welcomed him with a one armed hug that had Motoya sniffing because,

_“Kiyo initiates touch now. Ohmygod. I’m so proud of you.”_

In which Kiyoomi retaliated with a, _“You’re such a baby. I’ve been like this for years.”_

The family had went to an expensive restaurant after, celebrating Kiyoomi’s graduation and his long overdue celebration for being the MVP at the recent Japan National Collegiate Volleyball Championship.

Safe to say, Kiyoomi had went home that day feeling more happy than usual.  
  


**[ Osaka: _MSBY Black Jackals, #15 Jersey_ ]**

  
Now he was in Osaka, having been recruited by the Jackals after receiving his MVP title. At first, Kiyoomi had told them that he would think about it. After all, it was not an easy decision to move his whole life from Tokyo to Osaka.

In one of his meet-ups with Naoya, the setter had said, “Why not? Maybe you’ll find something there that isn’t here.”

Kiyoomi had hummed, laying on the bed, looking at the ceiling, “Yeah. Maybe… We’ll see.”

“Do you hate Osaka?” Naoya asked, laying down next to Kiyoomi once again. “Or maybe the Jackals?”

“No,” Kiyoomi replied, after a bit of consideration. He didn’t hate Osaka nor Jackals. But— _well._ “Just… someone.” Kiyoomi whispered, almost inaudible.

“Hmm, is it an enemy?” Naoya asked and Kiyoomi shook his head. “Crush, maybe?” Again, a shake of head. “Then a rival?” Another shake of head. “Well, who could they be to you, Kiyo?”

 _The sun,_ Kiyoomi wanted to reply.

“Nothing,” was what he said.

And so he’d left Jackals on the waitlist. He’d thought of the other offers sent to him, considering the pros and cons of each team.

Adlers, too, had contacted Kiyoomi. As well as EJP. For a brief moment, Kiyoomi had considered going to EJP and join Motoya there, just like their high school days. The same had happened to him with Adlers; he considered it for days, knowing that _Wakatoshi_ was one of their players.

The thing was, he wanted to _play_ against Wakatoshi; had wanted to receive his spikes from the other side of the net; had wanted to _block_ him and see what expression that normally stoic face of his would have when he sees _Kiyoomi_ blocking him. They’d been rivals for too long, why stop now?

Besides, Adlers and EJP might have interesting players but Jackals also had interesting ones that Kiyoomi had heard were making names in the volleyball scene. Add to that, Jackals had offered Kiyoomi a sum that he didn’t particularly _needed_ but had tempted him to choose them at the end.

Besides that, Kiyoomi had always wanted to live in Osaka. His grandmother from his mother’s side was from Osaka and his family might not have a close relationship with his relatives there but Kiyoomi had still wanted to see that traditional japanese house that his grandma grew up in. Kyoto, too, was close to Osaka and—

And if Kiyoomi was a braver man, was the same man that he was in high school, even _middle school_ , he wouldn’t have made so many excuses to himself or to his family on why he, at the end, after weeks of thinking over it again and again, chose MSBY Black Jackals as the professional team he’d play volleyball for.

He would have said it straightforward, no sugar coating, no going around the bush, no complicated reasons on how’s and why’s and whatever excuses he could come up with.

Just straight up,

 _Because Miya Atsumu was there and he’d been haunting me for years_.

That. Simple.

But Kiyoomi wasn’t the same man as he was in middle school or high school, brave and fearless and blunt. He was still blunt, yes, because people needed it sometimes but fearless he wasn’t anymore. Because there was a lot to lose the older you get.

Like a home.

Like a place to belong.

Like a heart.

Even knowing these, Kiyoomi had packed his bag, had flown to Osaka, had driven to the Jackals’ gym. Had thought,

 _Maybe it will be different this time_.  
  


**[ _Higashi-ōsaka: April 2018_ ]**

  
It was different this time.

But at the same time, it wasn’t.

Kiyoomi was conflicted.

The first time Kiyoomi met Miya Atsumu again, it was when Coach Foster had invited him to watch a practice game against another team. Kiyoomi had arrived half way to the game, the score being 20-22, to Jackals who were leading.

Kiyoomi had watched as the team received another serve that Miya Atsumu had set quickly and was spiked and scored by Bokuto Koutarou. Jackals’ had cheered then and praised Bokuto for scoring, thumped Miya’s back with big grins on their faces.

This was the team that Kiyoomi was going to join.

When the match point came, Miya Atsumu had set the ball to Shougo Meian, who spiked it in the middle, a risky one but the power he had put on his spike had the ball whooshing past the receiver’s ready hands, hitting the floor with a loud thud. There was a brief silence before Meian _thwacked_ Miya’s back, making Miya let out a loud groan followed by him letting out a loud joyous laugh that made his face looked younger— just a little bit childish.

 _This,_ Kiyoomi thought, _never changed._ Miya still acted like a five year old child when playing volleyball and it was— comforting.

“Meian-san!” Miya screamed, punching Meian’s arm in retaliation.

“Good job there, Miya,” Adriah Thomas said, followed by a ruffle to Miya’s head.

“I scored though?” Meian pouted at Adriah, the expression so out of place that Kiyoomi flinched a little at seeing it.

“So?” Adriah cocked a brow, grin teasing.

“Tsumtsum, good job!” Bokuto jumped on Miya, clinging on the setter’s back.

“Bo-kun! Yer heavy,” Miya grumbled, shrugging the other man from him.

“Whatever. Kids these days,” Meian scoffed before gathering everyone to the net and shaking hands with the other team.

Everyone was polite, smiling at each other, promising to play again next time, saying goodbye. The atmosphere was good and Kiyoomi tried to picture himself in the midst of all these rowdy people, winning a game with them, scoring from Miya’s set— it’s not that bad.

When Jackals’ finally were done with the greetings, Coach Foster gestured for Kiyoomi to follow him to the team, clapping his hands as they stop in front of the bench where most of the Jackals’ were sitting and drinking water.

“Coachie!” Bokuto exclaims, waving his water bottle. “You saw our win?”

Coach Foster nodded, smile on his face, “Sure did, Bokuto-san. It was a good practice game. Work on your jump though.”

“Aw…” Bokuto pouted, curling in on himself.

Miya chuckled and patted Bokuto’s head, “Don’t be sad, Bo-kun. I’ll practice with ya.”

“Tsumtsum, you’re the best!” Bokuto squished Miya in his arms, making the setter huff out a pained laugh.

“Yeah, yeah,” Miya continued to pat him, not minding being squeezed by Bokuto’s strong arms.

Kiyoomi watched their interactions; how they conversed with Coach Foster, how they talked with themselves, how they were so _comfortable_ with giving each other nicknames.

Briefly, Kiyoomi wondered if he would fit in with them. He’d just graduated from college, played with his college teammates for _years_ and now was going to try to integrate himself in the middle of all these— _strangers._ It was a bit nerve-racking.

Coach Foster cleared his throat then, gesturing to Kiyoomi who’d been standing a little bit far from his side.

“Everyone, meet your new teammate. He’s a new recruit that is going to play with you in a few weeks time. Perhaps some of you know him already.”

“Sakusa!” Someone exclaimed and Kiyoomi snapped their attention to them.

 _Ah, of course. It’s_ Miya.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi nodded, face unchanging. The mask covering half of his face didn’t help anyone with deciphering his emotions. Good. _Good_.

“Sakusa-san! Didn’t know yer joining us,” Miya grinned, now free from Bokuto’s hold. He was holding his water bottle on his right hand while the other is gripping the edge of the bench he was sitting on.

He looked _excited_.

Kiyoomi scrunched his nose under his mask, then sighed to himself quietly. Was he sure about this? Being on a team with _Miya Atsumu?_ The person that turned Kiyoomi’s world upside down years go?

“Well, I am, Miya,” Kiyoomi answered, rolling his eyes.

“That’s perfect! I’ve wanted to set for ya after youth camp!” Miya declared, like those words didn’t make Kiyoomi’s chest tighten. In guilt, in _spite;_ because Miya was the one who destroyed him when they played against each other that _one fucking time_ in Middle School.

“Let’s see, Miya,” Kiyoomi answered, forced himself to act _nonchalant_. Miya wouldn’t get a raise out of him. Never again.

“Alright,” Coach Foster piped in. “Sakusa is going to start practicing with the team once he’s settled in Osaka. Please guide him.”

A series of _yes coach, sure coach, my pleasure, coach!_ echoed around the gym at Coach Foster’s last words.

Kiyoomi bowed to them, back straight, head down as he said, “Take care of me.”

And when he straightened up again, it was Miya’s grinning face that he saw and Miya’s bright eyes that he locked on.

Kiyoomi asked himself once again, _are you sure about this_?

He didn’t deem himself an answer.  
  


*****

  
The second time Kiyoomi met Miya Atsumu, it was his first official day on the team. Miya Atsumu had entered the locker room, greeting everyone that was already there before he turned to Kiyoomi and stared him down for a long beat.

Kiyoomi had stared back, not one bit intimidated. If it was the Kiyoomi from high school, he would have showed annoyance, or had already taunted the setter. But Kiyoomi had grown to become a patient—albeit, _petty_ —adult and he’d learned to pick his fights.

Miya Atsumu said, “If ya hesitate hitting the ball I set to ya, I’d better not hear ya say ya were jus’ calculating. The balls I set to ya are curated for ya to hit it perfectly. If ya don’t score from it, I don’t want ya on the team.”

The locker room went silent, not a breath, not a peep was heard; one could hear a pin drop in the silence that had followed Miya Atsumu’s words.

Kiyoomi should have been _irked_ , even _offended_ at Miya Atsumu for assuming that Kiyoomi wouldn’t be able to _score_ from his sets. But Kiyoomi also remembered that day in Youth Camp, when he’d hesitated for a split second, and it might seem like an insignificant reaction to anyone but to Kiyoomi and probably to Atsumu who had been observing the whole team that week, it had been an issue of trust.

Was Kiyoomi going to hit the ball? It was too short. It was too high. It wasn’t easy enough, it wasn’t hard enough.

A setter and his spikers’ relationship was the thread that binds the web that was the team and if trust was an issue then the team would crack later on and that would be detrimental to everyone involved.

Kiyoomi scoffed, met Miya’s intense gaze, said, “Don’t worry, Miya. I’ll hit anything that you set.”

Miya stared him down for a while longer before his face bloomed into a smile, genuine and happy.

“Oh? Great, Sakusa-san!” Miya exclaimed, reaching out with a hand, intending to pat Kiyoomi’s arm but stopped mid-air. He paused for a bit before doing some sort of _air_ pat, blowing wind towards Kiyoomi’s arm. “Let’s get along, okay?”

Then the lockers erupted into different kinds of sounds. Some were laughing and some were shouting at Miya to give Kiyoomi a break. Kiyoomi would tell them that he didn’t _need_ it because he’d never miss a ball set to him by any setter. But he kept mum and continued to change into his practice jersey, ignoring the noises passing through his eardrums.

“TsumTsum, don’t be so hard on him!” Bokuto exclaimed, wrapping an arm around Atsumu’s shoulders. “Don’t worry _OmiOmi,_ he did it to me too. You’re not alone.”

Kiyoomi tilted his head and nodded, zipping up his jacket before pulling his mask up his face, hands quickly being shoved inside his jacket’s pockets.

“Whatever,” Kiyoomi mumbled. “And don’t call me that.”

“What? _OmiOmi_?” Miya let out in a sing-song voice, teasing.

Kiyoomi furrowed his brows. No one had ever called him— _Omi_ or _OmiOmi_ before. Motoya called him _Kiyo_ , so as his family and college teammates, even the partners he’d had either called him that or just his full name. Never any variation of _Omi_.

For some reason, it was annoying.

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi furrowed his brows, back slouched just a little as he passed by Bokuto and Miya, not looking back when Bokuto screamed,

_“But OmiOmi is nice!”_

Nice? Yeah, right.

( The nickname stayed.

Kiyoomi didn’t mind. )

  
Kiyoomi would admit to himself that he’d learned to love volleyball through and through; like it was the air he breathed, like it was the most important thing, like a _treasure_.

Growing up _stuck_ in a loop of _I want that. I have to do that to achieve that. Can I do that?_ had made Kiyoomi realise that not everyone felt the same way as him. And _he_ himself would not feel the same way as other people.

Namely, Miya Atsumu.

When Miya Atsumu fucked up his axis, pulled the gravity of his life down to the very core of his being where his insecurities and desires lied, Kiyoomi had been impressionable. It was deeply rooted in the fact that Kiyoomi had never wanted _anything_ in his life, except for _order_ ; the way he was unable to leave things before it was finished, that too was rooted to the desire to control his life the way his family always left him to decide whatever he wanted to do.

Kiyoomi didn’t want to do anything. Volleyball _was_ a hobby. He _had_ to get stronger _because_ Wakatoshi was stronger. He didn’t do anything solely for _himself._

But Miya showed him a different emotion; that he didn’t have to be _this_ to be _that_. That being _himself_ was okay to achieve anything. That leaving something unfinished didn’t mean he’d lose control in himself. That he could be _selfish._

Miya was reckless and he’d filled that blackhole in Kiyoomi’s chest, showing him something new.

And Kiyoomi, looking back now, was grateful. But Miya wasn’t the only one who shaped Kiyoomi. Kiyoomi had _Itachiyama_ and his family and Wakatoshi and _himself_ to fall onto whenever he felt like the grey clouds were starting to gather over his head once again. He’d worked on himself through the years; _therapy, socialising, touch, thinking, volleyball, desiring_.

Miya was the trigger but Kiyoomi hadn’t hold him on a high pedestal for a long time now.

And although Miya Atsumu had kept on haunting him even in university when he hadn’t even _seen_ Miya in person for years, Kiyoomi had learned to stop feeling _jealous_.

Because it all boiled down to that; the core of this emotion, the reason in why the Miya Atsumu in his mind would never stop haunting him.

Kiyoomi was jealous of him. He’d _wanted_ to be like him or _at least_ feel half of what he felt. But when Kiyoomi learned he could just be— _himself_ , in a sense that he didn’t have to _impress_ anybody to be one, Kiyoomi had stopped being jealous. It was gradual, slow and steady. Leisurely.

He’d stop being jealous and it felt like a breath of fresh air. It was amazing.

And right now, playing beside Miya Atsumu, Kiyoomi had promised himself to never allow the setter to affect him again.

“OmiOmi, nice kill!” Miya shouted after Kiyoomi scored in a particularly difficult time.

His grin was wide and his eyes sparkled. Kiyoomi rolled his eyes. “Of course, Miya. Who do you think I am?”

“Aw, Omi-kun! At least say thank ya!” Miya raised his hand, intending to slap with how his palm is straightly poised but as routine now, Miya stopped a few centimetres from Kiyoomi’s bare arm and started patting the air.

“Heh,” Kiyoomi shrugged, glancing at Miya’s retracting hand. “In your dreams.”

“OmiOmi!” Miya cried out as the team went to their places once again, his slender fingers and calloused palm in the forefront of Kiyoomi’s mind.

This— had been happening a lot. Miya and his hands in the air and patting whatever space was left between him and Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi had thought it was _nice_ at first; someone who was considerate of him, someone who knew when to stop invading his personal space, someone whom Kiyoomi didn’t have to glare down every second of the day just to let them stop _touching_ him.

But it had become an annoyance now. Kiyoomi was _frustrated_.

It had been three months since they’d played together in Jackals and Kiyoomi had integrated himself perfectly fine. The team was helpful; showing him their routines, joining him to watch their previous games, not reacting to Kiyoomi’s distance whenever the team huddled together.

Miya Atsumu was one of the first ones who warmed up to him because apparently,

_“I have to get to know my players, Omi-kun! That way I’d know yer quirks when playing. It’s my job.”_

Kiyoomi was pretty sure his job was to _set a ball,_ not get chummy with Kiyoomi. But Kiyoomi didn’t say anything, only ignored Miya when he kept on talking about how they could use Kiyoomi’s unique spikes in games.

Kiyoomi didn’t mind.

What he did mind though was Miya always wanting to— _touch_ but always stopping before he could graze Kiyoomi’s skin or jacket. Respectful or not, if Miya wasn’t going to follow _through it_ then he should _stop_ doing it in the first place.

And although Kiyoomi knew it was second nature for Miya to touch his teammates—even before, in _Inarizaki,_ Kiyoomi knew. He’d watched most of his games—if he was going to be cautious about it for _this_ long, then Miya should stop.

“Or you could just do something about it, Kiyoomi-kun,” Wakatoshi said when they FaceTimed one evening, talking about recent games.

Kiyoomi and Wakatoshi had become closer through the years. Sometimes they’d do video calls, sometimes Wakatoshi called Kiyoomi to ask for advice about his relationship with his _chocolatier_ boyfriend. In all honesty, Kiyoomi rarely even had good advices to give the older spiker but Wakatoshi was grateful nonetheless at Kiyoomi’s half-hearted advices that always ended with _but do whatever you want, Wakatoshi-kun. I bet Tendou-san would be happy with whatever you decide._

“I don’t know what you mean, Wakatoshi-kun,” Kiyoomi frowned, looking down at a notebook with a few strategies written by the assistant coach with the help of Meian and Miya.

“Have you ever thought of telling him that you’re okay with him touching you?” Wakatoshi said, always blunt.

Kiyoomi scoffed, “Why should I? He must have already known.”

Wakatoshi hummed through the speakers of the phone. “Does he really?”

At that, Kiyoomi looked up from the notebook and stared at Wakatoshi’s face on the screen. He paused, thinking of how the team had acted around Kiyoomi the past three months, especially Miya. Thinking about it now, the team rarely initiated _high-fives_ or _pats_ on Kiyoomi’s back. They’d stand close to him but they never touched him. The closest one to get to him was always Miya with his hand always hanging in the air, twitching before he’d pull away, bright grin still on his face.

 _Huh_.

“I… might have assumed that the team knew I have gone to therapy,” Kiyoomi said, honest, contemplating.

“It happens,” Wakatoshi sighed, like Kiyoomi omitting a big part of what volleyball was all about— _touch_ —wasn’t that big of a deal.

In a way, it wasn’t. Because Kiyoomi only had to touch the volleyball for the game to continue, there was no written rules about _touching_ each other.

But on the other, _touch_ was a way to communicate with one’s team; high-fives, fist-bumps, gentle pats, painful slaps—to name a few—were a sort of _bonding_ , a show of trust.

And Kiyoomi had just omitted that big part of him; the part of him that now could touch whoever he wanted, could even get _intimate_ with someone. How did he even do that?

Kiyoomi frowned to himself and looked back at what he’d been focusing on the last three months he’d joined Jackals. He remembered practicing until he was the last one out of the gym. He remembered talking to Meian about their routines and their rotations. He remembered tuning out Miya when he talked about Kiyoomi’s unnatural wrists and how it was _so amazing, omiomi!_

At the end, Kiyoomi muttered, to himself, to Wakatoshi,

“Not my fault.”

Wakatoshi replied, “If you say so, Kiyoomi-kun.”

That was how Kiyoomi had started to _initiate_ touch with his teammates.

He’d started slow because— _well_ , Kiyoomi was quite embarrassed about having played together with the Jackals but forgetting to tell them one of the most _important_ thing about him. And so he’d started with small touches.

Like when Bokuto scored, he’d raise a hand for the other hitter to slap. It was a small gesture, Kiyoomi knew but Bokuto had beamed widely, looking at Kiyoomi’s raised palm before he slapped it as hard as he could.

“OmiOmi! Nice kill!” Bokuto exclaimed, excited.

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, lowering his hand beside him, “You scored it.”

“Still!” Bokuto grinned and skipped to where he belonged, the game resuming after a few seconds.

Then medium gestures. Kiyoomi could admit that he could have skipped over the steps or levels of _touch_ but despite Kiyoomi being _comfortable_ with touch now, he was still _cautious_ about letting other people touch him. Therapy was still ongoing and Kiyoomi looked forward to the day he’d stop having to go to his therapist, just for check-ins. Still, it had helped him through the years and Kiyoomi was quite thankful about it.

So, _yes_ , he could have skipped over the steps _but_ it was also needed. To make him comfortable, to make the team comfortable, to make each and everyone of them _comfortable_.

Especially Miya;

Who still hadn’t gotten the _cue_.

The first time Kiyoomi raced his palms—both of his hands in the air—for Miya to slap in a _high-five_ , Miya had stood there, stunned. It was only a _medium_ gesture but Miya acted like Kiyoomi was asking to suck his dick.

 _Which_ was an awful thought.

It took Miya a whole ten seconds to slap his own calloused palms against Kiyoomi’s own and Kiyoomi tried not to feel _exposed_ at Miya’s scrutinising gaze.

“Nice dump, Miya,” Kiyoomi had said before turning away.

“Oh,” Miya breathed out, almost inaudible. Then he exclaimed, “Thank you, Omi-kun!”

That had been the start of countless, albeit scattered, touch exposure; courtesy of Sakusa Kiyoomi and experienced by MSBY Team Jackals.

Later, when they’d won the game, Miya had sidled to him, not close but not far. He’d grinned at Kiyoomi, eyes bright, saying,

“Omi-kun, I didn’t know ya like touching now!”

Kiyoomi bit his tongue that wanted to say _I always did but I couldn’t_ and instead replied,

“Just for today. Tomorrow you have to start paying for it.”

“Omi-kun! Are ya a swindler?!” Miya had whined and Kiyoomi had walked away, small smile on his lips.

_Full touch_ didn’t quite happen the way Kiyoomi wanted to. If he was asked how he wanted it, he’d have told someone some lie about _team hug after winning against Adlers_ or some bullshit like that. Kiyoomi didn’t quite know how to approach a _full touch_.

What _even_ was a full touch? He’d asked himself one night, laying on his bed after a day of another practice match against a prominent college team. When they’d played, Kiyoomi had been exposed to Bokuto’s high-fives, Miya’s _always infuriating_ air pats that Kiyoomi had now found out had become some sort of habit to the setter, and the rest of the team’s pats to his back.

He’d been the one who scored a lot of service ace that day and that made him the receptor of a lot of hands on his skin; on his back, on his hair, on his arm, on his fingers.

And they were all welcomed. He’d been playing with Jackals for close to four months and he’d be a pretty cold-hearted guy if he wasn’t receptive of their touches.

However, pats and high-fives and all those _minor_ touches were different from what Kiyoomi had dubbed _full touch_. So when it happened, Kiyoomi was stunned—

And pretty endeared.

All in all.

Hinata Shouyou had come back from Brazil and had joined the Jackals not long after. And to celebrate that, the team had decided to plan a welcoming dinner for him, almost a month after he’d joined. Kiyoomi looked back to his own welcoming party months ago, just a simple barbecue and sake that ended peacefully.

Kiyoomi looked around and compared _his_ own welcoming party with Hinata Shouyou’s and thanked all the God’s that took care of him that it wasn’t _this_ bad when he had his.

They were in an _Izakaya,_ sitting on the tatami floor and occupying two tables with different kinds of food in front of them; _Edamame, Yakitori, Hoke, Tamagoyaki, Motsu Nikomi_ littered the table. The food were joined by a few big glasses of beer, some highballs, a few _Chuhai’s_ and Kiyoomi’s staple, _Umeshu._

Kiyoomi was sitting with Miya, Bokuto, Hinata, Meian, and Adriah. Miya was sitting beside Kiyoomi who was squished against the wall. Miya had grinned at him when he crossed his legs upon sitting beside Kiyoomi, leaving a fair amount of distance between them. Kiyoomi had breathed a sigh of relief.

“Omi-kun, remember yer welcoming party?” Miya, still sober, had asked, conversational.

Kiyoomi had furrowed his brows and pursed his lips under his mask. “Of course.”

“Ya were so different then!” Miya beamed, too bright.

Kiyoomi squinted, “Well, a few months can change a person, Miya.”

“Oh, I bet!” Miya had exclaimed, grabbing his glass of _Chuhai_ and swallowing a few gulps of it.

“What do you mean, Miya?” Kiyoomi had asked, pulling his mask down as he grabbed his glass of _Umeshu._ He let the condensation wet his already cold palms, fingers moving up and down the glass in a contemplating habit.

“Because,” Miya started while he grabbed a _tamagoyaki_ with his chopsticks, the food coming right on time. It’s still hot and Kiyoomi looked at it, wondering if he should grab some now or wait for the next plate. “Oh, ya want, Omi-kun?” Miya asked, _tamagoyaki_ clipped in between his chopsticks hovering over Kiyoomi’s small plate.

Kiyoomi looked at it, then at Miya. Miya pulled his chopsticks back, saying, “Ah, sorry. I do this with ‘samu, so—“ he shrugged, retracting his hands slowly.

“No,” Kiyoomi grabbed Miya’s wrist, stopping his actions. Miya looked at him, an eyebrow cocked. “Just put it here.” Kiyoomi told him, pulling his hand back, and gesturing to his plate.

“Aw, OmiOmi!” Miya sing-songed, dropping the _tamagoyaki_ on Kiyoomi’s plate carefully, his grin bright, almost _happy_. “Yer warming up to me!”

“No,” Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, picked his own chopsticks and proceeded to eat the egg dish, ignoring Miya’s whines and questions of what they’d been talking about earlier.

Kiyoomi couldn’t remember either. He let Miya whine more while savouring the _tamagoyaki_.

That had been two hours ago.

In those two hours, Kiyoomi had conversed with Adriah—who was sitting across from him—in _English,_ talking about their favourite team and favourite volleyball players.

Kiyoomi had said, “Romero from Brazil is a favourite of mine.”

Adriah had perked up, nodded his head fervently, “Yeah, me too! He’s in Adlers now.”

Kiyoomi knew that too. Wakatoshi had told him the moment he’d met the international volleyball player.

“I know,” Kiyoomi had grinned, a small little quirk on the side of his lips. “I should’ve gone to Adlers, eh?” He joked, head tilting to the side.

Adriah laughed, loud and attention grabbing. “Ehhhh, but you have me in Jackals! We’re a strong team.”

“Hey, what’s this about Adlers?” Miya had piped in in heavily accented English from Kiyoomi’s side, brushing his shoulder briefly before Miya shifted and the heat of his body disappeared.

Adriah had replied, “Kiyoomi-san was scouted by Adlers, I think?”

Kiyoomi nodded and Miya turned to Kiyoomi with wide eyes. “Romero!”

Adriah and Kiyoomi chuckled, Adriah’s voice drowning Kiyoomi’s quiet one. “That’s what we’ve been talking about. Atsumu likes Romero too, hm?”

“Yes! Thomas-san, you do too?” Miya chirped, excited.

Kiyoomi had glanced at him then and found Miya’s cheeks flushed pink. Kiyoomi turned his gaze to Miya’s glass of drink and found it full once again; how many had it been?Three? Four? Miya was a fast drinker. And drinking _Chuhai_ was like drinking juice too, easy to swallow, hard to taste the alcohol.

Kiyoomi had sighed and listened to Adriah and Miya babble about Romero and his previous games, letting the voices of his teammates and the customers in the Izakaya soothe him.

And now, here Kiyoomi was.

With a drunk Miya clinging to his arm, mumbling about _onigiri_ and _ramen_. Hadn’t he just eaten a whole bowl of _edamame?_ Granted, _edamame_ wasn’t really a proper food.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi grunted when Miya’s head dropped on his shoulder, his fingers clutching Kiyoomi’s biceps. “You’re drunk.”

Miya blinked his eyes open for a bit, squinting. He looked up at Kiyoomi for a second before closing his lids once again, nuzzling Kiyoomi’s arm, face almost to his armpit. Kiyoomi scrunched his nose.

“OmiOmi, you have to take TsumTsum home,” Bokuto said, sounding sober even after a few drinks of beer.

Kiyoomi frowned, glancing up and meeting Bokuto’s eyes. He found him clutching one asleep Hinata Shouyou and a drunk Inunaki who was draped on his shoulders. Upon seeing him, Kiyoomi sighed and nodded.

“Alright,” Kiyoomi replied, jostling Miya with his shoulder.

“Thank you, Omi-kun,” Bokuto smiled. “I’m gonna bring these two to my place. TsumTsum lives close to _Fuse_. Just take a taxi and ask him for the address.”

Kiyoomi nodded again, “Thank you, Bokuto-san. I live in _Fuse_ too.”

And with that, Bokuto dragged Inunaki and Hinata out of the _Izakaya_. Kiyoomi had watched him struggle and for a brief moment, Kiyoomi had thought of offering his help. But then Miya made a sound, mumbling something about _sets_ and _balls_ which, _well_. Kiyoomi let out a blow of breath and glance towards the door, seeing Barnes join Bokuto with helping Inunaki stand straight.

After watching the others disappear around the corner, Kiyoomi looked around and found most of them had gone home. There were still few of them mingling around, just drinking and talking. Meian and Adriah were still downing drinks, quietly talking to each other. Kiyoomi looked down at Miya who’d snuggled to his arm once again.

Well, nothing to do now but take Miya’s drunk ass with him.

Initially, Kiyoomi had planned to shove Miya and himself inside a taxi so they could be home as fast as possible. But when Kiyoomi had helped Miya outside the Izakaya, holding him by his lower back, Miya had exhaled a huge breath before exclaiming,

“Fresh air!”

Kiyoomi had frozen. Wasn’t Miya falling asleep just ten seconds ago? _What the fuck_.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi said. “Keep it down. It’s one in the morning.”

Miya turned to him, blinking his eyes before grinning, “Ah, OmiOmi! Ya still here? Wanna go for round two?”

Kiyoomi scoffed, rolled his eyes, “Round two? You’re _drunk_.”

“Oh,” Miya breathed out. “I am?”

Pfft—

Kiyoomi took a deep breath, clutched Miya’s bicep. “Yes, Miya. You are. Let’s get you home.”

“No,” Miya whined, pouting. “Wanna stay here. OmiOmi, let’s stay here?”

Kiyoomi looked at him with wide eyes for a beat before swallowing a laugh down his throat. Really, if Kiyoomi thought Miya acted like a _child_ while playing volleyball, he acted even _more_ of a child while drunk.

It was part endearing and part annoying.

“No,” Kiyoomi refused, frowning behind his mask.

Miya’s lips began to tremble, his eyes watery as he looked at Kiyoomi with puppy eyes.

 _What_.

“Yer a meanie,” Miya said, poking Kiyoomi’s covered arm. “I don’t like ya anymore.”

Uh—

Kiyoomi blinked, cocked a brow. “Oh, you liked me?”

“Yes! Yer a good spiker! Ya hit my sets perfectly and let me touch ya,” Miya ranted while poking Kiyoomi’s arm repeatedly.

The bustling of the Izakaya became their background, the light from the lamp on each side of the street and in the front of the door the only light offered to them. The early September air was cool but welcomed to his heated skin, its wind quietly blowing his hair, soothing.

Here, right now, Kiyoomi felt something in himself shift.

It was a different kind of feeling when he’d seen Miya the first time and Miya had condensed everything that Kiyoomi new in one particle and pulled it right back down from where Kiyoomi had kept it hidden high up, where no one could reach it.

Now, Kiyoomi felt a buzzing deep within his being, goosebumps rising on his skin while cold sweat build on the back of his neck. This kind of feeling was unfamiliar to him and yet— he didn’t mind.

As long as it wasn’t dangerous, he didn’t mind _feeling_ emotions.

Kiyoomi welcomed them.

So when Miya jostled him by his arm, whining for _Omiiiii_ , Kiyoomi snorted and pulled his arm back from Miya’s hold.

“Fine, fine,” Kiyoomi sighed for the nth time that evening. “Let’s go for a walk, Miya.”

Miya perked up, half-lidded eyes widening. He _was_ sleepy, Kiyoomi could see but Kiyoomi could also see that he was fighting it _hard_.

Maybe a walk would wake Miya up, Kiyoomi thought while they walked down the streets, his hand hovering over Miya’s arm, just in case the setter keeled over.

“Ya know, OmiOmi,” Miya started, after a few minutes of walking in silence. “Yer actually a good guy.”

Kiyoomi glanced at him briefly, seeing Miya facing forward, his hands clasped behind his back. Thankfully he wasn’t wobbling like a typical drunkard would.

“Thank you…” Kiyoomi trailed off, not knowing if it was a compliment or an insult.

“What was up with ya in High School though?!” Miya exclaimed, turning to Kiyoomi fully. They’d reached a quiet neighbourhood now and Kiyoomi stirred Miya towards a bench with a lamp light hovering over it. Miya continued, “Ya kept on _glaring_ at me! And yes, I felt it! Ya _hate_ me, Omi-kun?” Miya pouted while Kiyoomi forced him to sit, settling beside him not long after.

Kiyoomi pondered the question for a few seconds before turning to Miya who was looking at him, eyes wide-open, almost _clear_.

“No,” Kiyoomi whispered, quiet. “I don’t hate you, Miya.”

“So why did ya give me all those stinky-eyes in high school?” Miya asked, huffing and scuffing the toe of his sneakers against the pavement.

Kiyoomi considered being _honest_ , just tell Miya every little thing that Kiyoomi had felt when he’d seen him for the first time, continuing for the whole of their high school years.

But Miya was _drunk_. Miya was babbling nonsense and come tomorrow, he wouldn’t even remember their conversation.

So Kiyoomi chose a half-lie, half-truth. “You were on an enemy team.”

“Hmpf, just because we beat ya in first year! That was so long ago, OmiOmi!” Miya gestured with his hands wildly, almost hitting Kiyoomi on his jaw.

Kiyoomi grabbed Miya’s hand, settled them on Miya’s lap where they weren’t a hazard to his face.

“I know,” Kiyoomi nodded. “That’s why I don’t do it anymore. I don’t think about it anymore.” Kiyoomi explained; this time, honest.

“I see,” Miya settled down, his eyes drooping again. “Ya like the Jackals, Omi-kun?” He asked, quiet.

Kiyoomi glanced at him and found him looking up at the moon which was full and bright, blanketing the night with its comforting rays.

“I do,” Kiyoomi nodded.

“That’s good,” Miya Atsumu grinned, eyes slipping close, and head tipping to the side, towards Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “Because I like ya too.”

And then he’d fallen asleep, leaving Kiyoomi wondering what his words _meant_ and what he was supposed to do now.

At the end, Kiyoomi had called a taxi, brought Miya to his apartment, dropped him on _his_ sofa and went to take a shower and a much needed sleep.

Come morning the next day, Miya was gone from the couch.

Kiyoomi shrugged.

Oh well.

( Later that day, when Kiyoomi’s hungover had abated, he’d realised Miya had breached _full touch_ easily. He’d hugged Kiyoomi’s side when they were getting to his place, he’d nuzzled his face on Kiyoomi’s biceps, arms wrapped around Kiyoomi like a koala. Kiyoomi hadn’t minded then. And even now, the memory didn’t bother Kiyoomi.

Huh.)  
  


**[ _Sendai, Miyagi, Japan: November 2018_ ]**

  
They were playing against Adlers.

It was Hinata’s official debut as a Jackal’s member and it was Kiyoomi’s first important game with the team. It was also Kiyoomi’s first game against the Adlers after losing to them at _Koruwashiki_ last year. Kiyoomi was _hyped;_ not only because he’d play against Wakatoshi but also because he could feel that it was going to be an intense game that he’d surely _enjoy_ participating in.

And enjoy Kiyoomi did.

The game started with Jackals’ scoring the first point, Hinata spiking the ball that Miya had set to him. They had used that freak quick attack that Kageyama and Hinata was known for in High School but this time, it was _quicker_ and Hinata Shouyou jumped _higher_ and he’d spiked _harder_.

It was different.

The game continued like that. Taking points from each other, glaring behind the net, taunting through setter dumps.

It was _fun_.

And through it all, Kiyoomi had watched Miya Atsumu perform to the best of his abilities.

Kiyoomi had already known that Miya would go far and beyond just to _score_ , just so he can _play_ more volleyball and see it through the end. Once, in high school, Kiyoomi had thought the end of volleyball was just a beginning of a bigger puzzle and so it was always _unfinished_. This was one of the reason why Kiyoomi couldn’t quit volleyball that easily, even when he’d felt like pressure was raining down on him, he didn’t _quit_.

Now, Kiyoomi still thought the same but he’d learnt to accept that volleyball in itself, finished or unfinished, was worth _playing_. No matter if he lost or if he won. He was lucky enough to survive this long. Lucky to meet people. Lucky to still be playing what he’d learned to love: _volleyball_.

When he was in the court, Kiyoomi felt like he was in the top of the world and Miya must feel the same. Looking back now, Miya had probably felt like this the whole time; when _Inarizaki_ had beaten _Itachiyama,_ when _Inarizaki_ had lost to _Karasuno,_ when high school ended and they had to choose a more secure path.

This was probably why Miya would do _anything_ for volleyball. He’d dive for it, he’d dig for it, he’d crouch deep for it, he’d jump as high as he could for it and Kiyoomi—

Now that Kiyoomi could understand what Miya might have thought all these years, Kiyoomi could only feel respect towards the setter.

Perhaps this was what Kiyoomi had been feeling all along.

In the middle of the game, Kiyoomi had scored a line shot after Miya shouted an,

“ _Omi-kun!”_

Kiyoomi had spiked the ball that Miya Atsumu had set, close to the line where no one was expecting for him to send the ball into.

The moment he’d scored, Kiyoomi heard the commentator blabber about him being the College MVP. Kiyoomi felt proud hearing that. He’d worked so hard for _his_ volleyball that didn’t mimic anyone else. _His_ volleyball that made him enjoy the game. _His_ own volleyball that brought him _joy_.

Curling his hands into a fist pump, Kiyoomi looked to the side, found Miya with his hand on the air once again, grinning.

“ _Geez_ , Omi-kun! That was gross. Just gross!” Miya teased, eyes squinted into a smile.

Kiyoomi side-eyed him, frowning, “Excuse me?!”

“It’s a compliment, really!” Miya laughed, retracting his hand.

Kiyoomi raised his hand for a high-five, frown still marring his face as he said, “Whatever, Miya. Set higher.”

Miya slapped his hand against Kiyoomi’s own, brief, short. Warm, settling.

“It was a perfect set, OmiOmi!” Miya exclaimed as Kiyoomi walked away from him, feeling just a little bit triumphant.

The third set was particularly intense and Jackals had exchanged points after points with Adlers. Romero was a particularly difficult opponent and it was hard to receive his spikes. But Kiyoomi had dug the ball, had kept it in play with Bokuto scoring it.

When the climax was nearing and they were again fighting for who will dominate the game, Kiyoomi had thought that it was truly nice to be here. Playing volleyball with a team that understood him, watching a teammate score and giving them a fist-bump, hearing the crowd cheer for his team, for their opponent, for whoever.

It was such an— _amazing_ feeling.

 _Going out with a smile. Ending on a victory. Both would be nice,_ Kiyoomi thought as he watched Miya dive for the ball. _But either isn’t particularly necessary._ All Kiyoomi wanted was to practice and train, paying proper care and attention to everything. _Today, tomorrow, and all the way up to the day before his last game._

Kiyoomi watched as Bokuto spiked the final ball across the net, the sound of it slamming on the rubbered floor deafening. There was silence for a heartbeat and then loud cheers. Kiyoomi grinned, wide and painful and _happy_.

And as he huddled with his team, Miya and Bokuto’s hands on each side of his shoulders, he thought,

If he was lucky to go out thinking he could be done at any time, and still be satisfied, like this—

Then it was all worth it.

Jackals' celebrated the way they always celebrated a win.

Eating and drinking.

And that evening, tipsy and happy and high from victory, Kiyoomi made a mistake.

Miya Atsumu was a mistake.


	2. Chapter 2

**[ _Sendai, Miyagi, Japan: November 2018_ ]**

  
“Omi,” Miya breathed out, fingers buried in Kiyoomi’s dark curls.

Kiyoomi hovered over him, fingers digging on the cheap mattress of the hotel their team was staying in. They were… in one of their rooms; maybe Miya’s, maybe Kiyoomi’s. Kiyoomi couldn’t remember and he didn’t have the capacity to _think_ right now.

Miya made a noise, fingers on his hair pulling harshly. Kiyoomi hissed and looked down at the setter, taking in his flushed cheeks, his plump lips, his dark eyes.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi breathed back, blinking just a tad bit rapidly.

“ _Atsumu_ ,” Miya pulled him closer, mouthing at the corner of Kiyoomi’s lips.

Kiyoomi nodded, resting his head on top of Miya’s own. “ _Atsumu_?”

Miya giggled and pressed a kiss on Kiyoomi’s cheek. “ _Better_.”

“We’re drunk,” Kiyoomi said, ignoring Miya’s affectionate actions.

“ _Exactly,_ Omi!” Miya exclaimed loudly, making Kiyoomi flinch and pull back from Miya’s personal space. “We’re drunk. I don’ even know why we’re doin’ this? Are ya horny, Omi?”

Kiyoomi blinked, considering the question seriously. He shrugged, alcohol addled brain too hazy to think properly.

“We can. We can’t,” Kiyoomi said, honest. “Whatever.”

“Hmpf,” Miya huffed and with all his strength—which was lessened by alcohol because he was _drunk_ —he changed their position so Kiyoomi laid under him and he was hovering over Kiyoomi. “Yer such a killjoy, Omi. We’re jus’— jus’—what’s it called? Ah! _Fooling ‘round_.”

“Fooling around,” Kiyoomi repeated, like a parrot.

“Right!” Miya giggled, straddling Kiyoomi’s lap. He leaned down, gave Kiyoomi an eskimo kiss. _Oh_. “But yanno, we can jus’ cuddle. ‘m actually so tired. I could knock out right n—“

Kiyoomi watched as Miya’s eyes drooped close, his face devoid of expression but _serene._ Then he started sliding down the side of Kiyoomi’s face, his fingers on Kiyoomi’s chest slackening as he completely slumped on top of Kiyoomi’s body.

Kiyoomi sighed and shifted, throwing Miya’s body to the side carelessly. Miya grunted in his sleep but didn’t wake up, only turning on his side and curling in a ball, putting his now softly clenched hands under his chin.

He looked… _peaceful_.

Kiyoomi blinked at the ceiling, felt the consequences of drinking too much alcohol pound against his temple. He sat up, looked around and breathed a sigh of relief when he found out that they were in his hotel room.

Standing up, he stretched, wobbling a little as he did so. After righting himself, he turned to Miya, who was still curled in a ball. Once again, he sighed and pulled the blankets over the setter, fingers clumsy, eyes hazy. He stared at Miya for a while, letting his mind just— _go blank_.

Then he blinked and headed to the bathroom.

A shower was needed.

Unlike the time Miya had slept over in Kiyoomi’s apartment in Osaka, this time he didn’t disappear before Kiyoomi woke up.

When Kiyoomi opened his eyes, it was to Miya stretching his long limbs before tucking his feet under Kiyoomi’s calves. Kiyoomi had groaned at the incessant wiggling beside him.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi grumbled, voice deep from sleep. He squinted his eyes at Miya’s figure, saying, “Your feet is fucking cold.”

Miya moaned, smooshed his face against the pillow that Kiyoomi had put under his head last night.

“’s cold. I dun’ wanna wake up.” He peeked at Kiyoomi, eyes still blinking sleep away. “Ugh, my head.”

Kiyoomi huffed out a short laugh, said, “Hungover is a bitch.”

“I hate it. ‘m not drinking ever again,” Miya grumbled, nuzzling his face on the pillow, messing his dyed hair even more.

“Say that again the next time you get drunk and I become, _once again_ , your designated babysitter.” Kiyoomirubbed a hand down his face, feeling a soft stubble already forming on his jaw.

“I didn’t _ask_ ya to be my _babysitter_ ,” Miya retaliated before groaning once again. “Ugh, Omi. Shut the fuck up. Yer making my head ache.”

“ _That_ is because of the alcohol. Not me,” Kiyoomi retorted, voice just a tad bit sharp for a late morning.

“Ugh, whatever,” Miya rubbed his still freezing feet on Kiyoomi’s legs, making Kiyoomi purse his lips. “Yer so warm, OmiOmi.”

“And you’re a fucking ice cube. Go take a shower,” Kiyoomi answered before hopping from the bed and turning away from Miya, digging his pockets for his phone.

Then, a cold hand touched his bare back.

Kiyoomi turned so fast, he could’ve gotten a whiplash. He glared at Miya, pants clutched on his hands.

“What the _fuck_ , Miya?”

“Ya have three moles that forms into a triangle in the middle of your back,” Miya shrugged, looking up at Kiyoomi with his disheveled face.

“Go fucking shower,” Kiyoomi repeated, frowning.

Miya flinched and stared at Kiyoomi for a while before sighing loudly and slipping out of the blankets. Kiyoomi watched him carefully, noting his shivering form.

“Are you fucking anaemic or what,” Kiyoomi spat out, brows furrowed.

“ _No_ ,” Miya rolled his eyes, scratching his belly under his shirt. “I just hate the cold.”

Kiyoomi clicked his tongue and pointed to the shower, “Hot shower. Make sure you clean yourself properly. There’s an extra toothbrush there. _Use it_.”

“Okay, okay. _Geez_ , Omi-kun, what are you, my mom?” Miya teased, looking more awake now.

“ _Go_.”

“ _Fine_.”

Once Miya disappeared from view, Kiyoomi let out the breath that he was holding inside; full of relief, of nerves, of— _questions_.

Did Miya forget what happened yesterday? It didn’t seem like it. He knew Kiyoomi was beside him when he woke up, evident in the way he’d so casually called Kiyoomi _Omi_ with no embarrassment nor shame in his voice.

Did Kiyoomi regret yesterday? _Yes_.

Did he really?

 _No_.

Apparently, Miya Atsumu wasn’t a mistake because if he was then Kiyoomi would have regretted it— would have been _apologetic_ for what he’d done. But he wasn’t.

Kiyoomi was surprised when Miya started to get _handsy_ with him at the Izakaya where Jackals and Adlers were celebrating their game. Win or lose, at the end, they were all athletes who just wanted to play volleyball and share it with people who felt the same. There was no bad blood between the two teams, they _get along_.

Kiyoomi had sat beside Miya again or— well, Miya had sat beside Kiyoomi. Across from them sat Hoshiumi Kourai, Kageyama Tobio, and Wakatoshi. Romero joined them an hour later and that was when everything started to go downhill.

In a group dominated by _stupid_ athletes that thought with their _muscles_ , chaos was bound to happen. First, it was hand wrestling. Second, a shot game. Third, some sort of passing game. Fourth, a game of who could _plank_ the longest. Fifth—

And so on.

Kiyoomi had lost count of how many glasses of beer he’d drank. Miya beside him had opted to drink _only_ water after his sixth _Chuhai_ , telling Hinata—who sat beside Miya—that he was a lightweight. Kiyoomi had muffled a scoff on his glass at those words.

 _Lightweight_ was an underestatement.

Miya was a fucking child when it came to alcohol. _Chuhai_ didn’t even contain a huge percentage of alcohol and _yet_ , Miya was almost a blabbering drunk after his fourth glass.

Kiyoomi had scoffed, loud enough for Miya to hear, _“Weak.”_

Miya, tipsy and easily taunted, slapped Kiyoomi’s arm, said, “Fuck ya, OmiOmi.”

“You wish,” Kiyoomi had retaliated.

Miya had blinked hazy eyes and stared at him for a moment before pinching Kiyoomi’s arm. “No thanks,” he’d replied but leaned his forehead on Kiyoomi’s shoulder, the way he’d done the last time he’d gotten drunk beside Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi didn’t shove him off, even after Wakatoshi tilted his head in question at him. Kiyoomi only shrugged a shoulder at his friend, careful to not jostle Miya who had started to poke Kiyoomi’s arm, mumbling about _benchpress_ and _weight_. Kiyoomi had ignored him.

Until he’d breathed against Kiyoomi’s ear, soft, just a little seductive,

“Omi, let’s get out of here?”

Kiyoomi had turned to him, slow to not fuck up his alcohol filled brain, “ _What_.”

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” Miya had grinned, charming smile, hair perfectly curled on top of his head, eyes just slightly hazy, fingers rubbing the edge of Kiyoomi’s jacket.

 _Oh,_ Kiyoomi had thought.

Huh.

And honestly, Kiyoomi could repeat what had happened last night in vivid memories but all he could think of is that he’d fallen on the same bed with _Miya_ , of all people.

First, _Naoya_.

Then, _Miya_.

Was Kiyoomi’s type setters?

Kiyoomi scoffed to himself and thought of all the cute girls and the few muscled guys he’d slept with. They weren’t setters, they weren’t _insufferable_ like Miya, they weren’t as _casual_ as Naoya.

Kiyoomi didn’t have a type, he deduced.

Because sex was sex and another person’s touch was a luxury that Kiyoomi had learned to never turn down.

Miya Atsumu ran hot last night and Kiyoomi had felt _starved_. Of touch; affection, _heat_.

And that was the only reason why they’d made out.

It had to be.

When Miya came out of the shower, a cloud of steam had followed him. He was wearing the _Yukata_ that the hotel offered, tied loosely in the middle of his waist, one side of the collar falling from his shoulders. Kiyoomi narrowed his eyes at him, brows furrowing as he examined _Miya._

“Miya,” Kiyoomi started as he paused in looking for an extra mask inside his duffle bag. “What the hell are you wearing?”

Miya had grinned, took his phone from the bedside table, then answered, “My clothes were dirty. Ya don’ want me to wear dirty clothes, right, Omi-kun?”

Kiyoomi made a disgusted face because— _no_ , he definitely didn’t want to stand a kilometre close to Miya if he’d worn his old clothes after showering. A question then appeared, one that Kiyoomi dreaded.

“Then what are you going to wear?” Kiyoomi asked, pursing his lips. He watched as a droplet of water trailed along Miya’s neck, disappearing down the _Yukata_ he was wearing.

“Well,” Miya chewed on his lower lip, hesitating. Kiyoomi glared at him. Miya sighed, and in a soft voice, asked, “Can I borrow from ya?”

Kiyoomi blinked, looked at Miya like he’d grown two heads. “You have clothes in your room.”

“But my room is in the twentieth floor!” Miya pouted and Kiyoomi scoffed.

“You’re wearing something,” Kiyoomi said, rolling his eyes. “Get out of here.”

“Ah, OmiOmi,” Miya whined. “Yer so mean. What about a hoodie? Let me borrow?”

Kiyoomi curled his lips in disgust, stared Miya down for a minute before sighing in defeat. He pulled a black oversized hoodie out of his duffle bag and threw it to Miya who let out a squeak in surprise when it hit him on the face.

“There. You can burn it after. _Leave,_ ” Kiyoomi demanded, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Miya slipped the hoodie through his head first before nodding in agreement, grin wide on his face as he pinched the paws of the hoodie covering his fingers.

“Thank you, OmiOmi!” Miya exclaimed and with a small wave, he left the room, leaving Kiyoomi breathless.

 _Speechless_.

What the fuck.

**[ _Higashi-ōsaka, Japan: December 2018_ ]**

  
In hindsight, Kiyoomi should have seen the signs.

Like how Miya always sat with him in team dinners and casual gatherings. Like how Miya beamed at him; bright and blinding. Like how Miya had kissed him once, twice, _thrice,_ warm fingers trailing down his cheek.

And in hindsight, Kiyoomi should have stopped Miya.

But Miya was the sun and Kiyoomi was _starved_ for light, for heat, _for touch_.

Kiyoomi should have expected to be burned.

He didn’t think it’d be this painful.  
  


*****

  
“Omi, whatcha doin’ for Christmas?” Miya asked, tilting his head to the side.

Kiyoomi cocked his brow as he bent his wrists further, stretching his body properly before their warm-up drills.

For a brief moment, the image of Naoya replaced Miya. Then Kiyoomi blinked and Miya was still waiting for his answer, twirling a volleyball on the tip of his forefinger.

Kiyoomi answered, clipped, “No plans.”

“Then d’ya wanna hang-out?” Miya hugged the ball close to his chest this time, smile less bright and eyes more expectant.

Kiyoomi should say _no_ because he knew where this was going. Christmas were for lovers and lonely people on Christmas _seek_ more heat than normal. Kiyoomi _knew_ , better than anyone.

Not only that but after their— _escapade_ in Miyagi, Miya hadn’t mentioned anything about it. He’d continued nagging Kiyoomi about being more _nice_ to other team members, telling Kiyoomi to become _less blunt_. Kiyoomi never listened to him. In short, Miya hadn’t changed how he treated Kiyoomi, even after making out with him, even after a night of sleeping beside each other, even after never giving Kiyoomi’s hoodie back, wearing it instead after practice and giving Kiyoomi an annoying smirk every time Kiyoomi saw him in it.

Kiyoomi should say _no_ but instead, Kiyoomi shrugged, said,

“Sure.”

Miya then had perked up, beaming, “Can I get yer number then, OmiOmi? I’ll send ya what we’ll be doing next week!”

Kiyoomi threw him his unlocked phone, watched Miya smiled at it like he was the cat that got the canary.

“Alright! I’ll message you,” Miya smiled, putting the phone on top of Kiyoomi’s towel where it laid before. “Now, off to run outside, Omi!”

“Go to hell, Miya.”

“Omi!”

Kiyoomi hated _clingy_ people. Men, women, in between. He disliked being nagged every second of the day, his phone pinging with notifications. He disliked multiple messages because why couldn’t they just write it in one sentence? There was no need to hurry. Bad time management was something Kiyoomi _loathed_.

And so when his phone pinged several times while watching a show on the television, Kiyoomi had sighed. He’d expected it to be Motoya, the only exception to his dislike of _spam messages_.

But the screen showed: a _tsumuwu!_ and Kiyoomi had nearly thrown his phone against the wall.

 _What the actual hell_.

Groaning in distaste, Kiyoomi opened Miya’s messages.

a _tsumuwu!:  
_ omi!  
this is atsumu!  
let’s go to disney world on christmas.  
oh, wait. we only have one day :(  
what about eating dinner together?

read, 20:10

Kiyoomi watched the three dots on the screen, a sign that Miya was still typing one of his wild ideas.

 _kiyoomi:  
_ no to disney world, miya. we live in osaka, disney is in tokyo. and a dinner would be nice. let’s not make our day more complicated.

sent, 20:13

The three dots on the screen disappeared when Kiyoomi’s reply showed that it was successfully sent. Kiyoomi exhaled, glancing at the television before grabbing the remote and muting it, putting all his focus on Miya that was once again spamming him with short messages.

 _atsumuwu!:  
_ i know! but we could have gone, right?  
a trip! we’ve got holiday break until new years!  
does omi know a good restaurant?  
i don’t want to go to an izakaya.  
we always go to one!  
（´-`）

read, 20:16

Kiyoomi squinted his eyes at the multiple messages on his screen, scrolling up back and forth just so he can decipher the full content of what Miya was trying to say.

 _kiyoomi:  
_ i do know a place. i can pick you up at around six if you want. if not, then you decide the time.

sent, 20:17

Miya took a while to reply, the three dots on the screen disappearing and appearing a couple of times. Kiyoomi stared at it, fingers hovering over the screen of his phone.

Was he _waiting_?

Kiyoomi frowned to himself and was about to lock his phone to focus on the television once again when Miya sent more messages that had Kiyoomi narrowing his eyes.

 _atsumuwu!:  
_ but i want to hang out with you before we eat dinner?  
what about going to osaka-jō?  
have you been there?

read, 20:20

 _Osaka-jō_? Kiyoomi hummed to himself. He’d heard of how popular it was, one of the sightseeing spots in Osaka. Personally, Kiyoomi wasn’t one to go to popular places, preferring quiet temples like _Sumiyoshi Taisha_ and _Shitennō-ji._ Kiyoomi had been to those places a couple of times, walking around, pausing to pay respects, and just breathing in and out the fresh wind and quiet atmosphere.

Obviously, Kiyoomi had replied a _‘no’_ to Miya. And Miya, expectedly, replied quickly.

 _atsumuwu!:  
_ then i’ll take you there!  
they have a pretty christmas exhibition going on right now!

read, 20:23

Kiyoomi read the message a couple of times, considered what that would entail. On one hand, if he went to _Osaka-jō_ with Miya, there would surely be a lot of people there. It was a _tourist spot_ and people flock there everyday.

On the other, Kiyoomi had never been there and it would be a different experience from what he was used to. Kiyoomi took a long time to think about it; comfort over experience, experience over comfort.

Kiyoomi apparently had taken too long because Miya had deemed to send another message.

 _atsumuwu!:  
_ maybe not?

read, 20:26

Kiyoomi sighed, looked straight at the television where the show was reaching its climax. He looked back down at his phone screen and started typing a simple answer.

 _kiyoomi:  
_ okay, miya. we can go to osaka-jō.

sent, 20:27

Miya replied quickly, full of exclamation marks and it almost felt like was there, exclaiming the words in Kiyoomi’s ears.

 _atsumuwu!:  
_ great!  
see ya on christmas, omi!

read, 20:29

 _kiyoomi:_  
see you, miya.

sent, 20:29

 _atsumuwu!:_  
goodnight!

read, 20:30

 _kiyoomi:  
_ goodnight.

sent, 20:30

Looking at the time, Kiyoomi clicked his tongue. It was now nearing nine o’clock and Kiyoomi still had to make dinner.

Damn Miya for distracting him.

With a heavy breath, Kiyoomi stood up from the couch and headed to the kitchen. A simple rice and curry would be enough for a late dinner.

Come Christmas Day, Kiyoomi picked up Miya at three in the afternoon outside the _JR Osaka Station_ because apparently he had to _buy_ coffee for them and there wasn’t any good _caf_ _é_ close to his place so he had to ride the train to _Kitashinchi_ and have Kiyoomi drive there too. Kiyoomi had declined at first, telling Miya that it wasn’t needed but Miya was insistent, asking Kiyoomi of what he preferred.

Kiyoomi, defeated, slightly petty, had replied with the most complicated _Starbucks_ drink that he knew. Miya had hummed and made him repeat it a couple of times, telling him that he was writing it on his _notepad_. Kiyoomi had snorted then, thinking it was ridiculous.

He found it just a little bit troublesome and a lot more endearing.

Now though, Miya beside him sitting on the passenger seat, Kiyoomi thought he should have made the drink _more_ complicated. Miya was too chirpy for someone who’d ordered a complicated drink in _Starbucks_.

Tsk.

“Omi, here! I hope it tastes good,” Miya handed him his coffee, eyes crinkled into a smile, hair fluffy on top of his head. What was he, an idol? He was too dressed up for just going to a _castle_.

“Me too,” Kiyoomi took the take-away cup, sighing at the warmth that met his fingers.

“Ya know, ya should take care not to consume so much sugar. That drink has more sugar than what you need daily,” Miya said as he fixed his seatbelt with one hand, the other hand holding his own cup of coffee.

“Mind your own business, Miya,” Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, knowing perfectly well how much _calorie_ and sugar was in the drink.

“Omi!” Miya whined, reaching out to poke Kiyoomi’s arm. “I care about ya!”

“Then stop,” Kiyoomi snorted, took a sip of his coffee before putting it on the cup holder beside the gear stick.

“Yer so mean, Omi-kun,” Miya sniffed and Kiyoomi scoffed, small smile rising on the corner of his lips.

“Okay,” Kiyoomi hummed, hands on the wheel. “Do you still want to go to _Osaka-jō_ or should i throw you out here?”

“Ah, OmiOmi! Let’s go! I wanna see the exhibition!” Miya grinned and Kiyoomi just knew, without turning and looking at him, that his expression would be of childish excitement.

Just like the first time they’d played volleyball together.

Kiyoomi swallowed at that thought and started driving.

Traffic in Osaka wasn’t as bad as in Tokyo. They reached the tourist spot quickly, after twenty minutes of driving. In that span of time, Miya had finished his coffee and had started to hum to the song playing in the radio.

And once they were there, Atsumu had led Kiyoomi towards the entrance. But not before _ooh-ing_ and _ahh-ing_ at the various Christmas decoration littered around the place. He’d asked Kiyoomi to take pictures of him in front of a ground with blinking Christmas lights, doing a peace sign and a few ridiculous poses. He’d also asked Kiyoomi to take a selfie of both of them which Kiyoomi had declined _rudely_. Kiyoomi wasn’t much of a _selfie_ person. He preferred taking pictures of the _view_.

When they finally entered the castle, it was already getting dark and there were lots of people loitering around, taking group pictures and laughing with each other. Miya had dragged Kiyoomi by the sleeve of his jacket towards the front, where they could see the said _castle_ clearly, _up close._

“Is this it?” Kiyoomi cocked a brow. “Not much.”

Miya chuckled, humming, “Yeah. I mean we could go inside but I don’t think yer up for that.”

“No,” Kiyoomi replied quickly, lips turning into a frown. “I like the view from here.”

“Right?” Miya grinned. “Let’s take more pictures!”

And pictures they took more of. Or well, _Kiyoomi_ took more pictures of Miya from all angles and poses the setter came up with. A few times, some people would approach them and ask for photographs and autographs which they happily granted. And a lot of times, Kiyoomi had to decline Miya from taking a picture of him.

When they got tired of looking up at the castle, they walked around, found a pond that reflected the castle from a slight distance and took some time to take pictures there too. Under the light of the yellow lamp and the moonlight, the reflection of the white castle was beautiful. Miya had stood on a rock by the pond then, looking down at the mirrored image of the castle on the water. Kiyoomi had watched him intently and before he could think about it, he’d raised his phone and took a picture of Miya, just standing there, looking serene, a small smile on his face.

Kiyoomi had thought of him not as the sun at that moment. He looked more of a lone star, just floating around, basking in what the world might throw at him, content and happy.

Then Miya turned, just a tilt of his head, and smiled at Kiyoomi. Right then and there, with the castle and the darkness, along with the trees surrounding them, Kiyoomi saw how Miya could tamper his own brightness within the darkness.

It was a revelation.

Maybe Miya wasn’t the sun.

Maybe he was just like Kiyoomi, seeking for the sun.

Their _Osaka-jō_ outing ended after they’d strolled around the multiple decorated lanterns just a few minutes from the main tourist spot. Kiyoomi’s phone is now filled of picture of Miya’s face and Christmas lights that he knew he’d end up mass deleting later.

Who the hell takes pictures of Christmas lights anyways? Apparently, Kiyoomi who was swept in the moment.

Huh.

And after that, Kiyoomi had driven them back to _Umeda_ , and took Miya to an obscure restaurant where they offered western cuisines that Kiyoomi knew Miya would like. After all, Miya always whined about eating _steak_ as much as he whined about eating his brother’s _onigiri_.

And after they’d eaten dinner and drank a couple glass of _beer_ , they had gone back to Miya’s place.

Kiyoomi knew they’d end up here based on what happened with Naoya a few years ago. And even though Kiyoomi hadn’t really _hope_ for it, he’d _expected_ it to some degree. And apparently, so did Miya.

They were just two peas in the same pod.

“Omi-kun,” Miya breathed out, pressing a kiss on Kiyoomi’s lips.

“Miya,” Kiyoomi replied, reciprocating the kiss, puckering his lips and sliding his tongue past Miya’s parted lips.

Miya moaned, bucked under Kiyoomi’s body, his hips meeting Kiyoomi’s own. Kiyoomi could feel the bulge under his jeans, hard and probably leaking. Trailing his hands down Miya’s body, he shifted a little until he’s kneeling in between Miya’s legs and his hand was rubbing Miya’s dick over his pants.

“Oh, _god_ ,” Miya let out, pulling back from the kiss. “Feels good.”

“Hmm,” Kiyoomi hummed, quickly unbuckled and unbuttoned Miya’s pants before shoving his hand inside his boxers and grasping his hard length. “This feels better, Miya?”

Miya nodded, looking down and watching Kiyoomi’s hand work up and down his member, rubbing on his tip, tightening his grip.

“Better,” Miya moaned, fingers sliding down Kiyoomi’s sides. “Let’s do it together?” He asked, palming Kiyoomi’s own obvious erection under his pants.

Kiyoomi let out a heavy breath, grip on Miya’s length slackening as Miya rubbed him harder. He looked down at Miya and met his eyes, dark hazel and full of arousal. His hair was now in a disarray, forehead beading with sweat.

“Okay,” Kiyoomi nodded. Miya smirked, pushing his palm against Kiyoomi’s erection harder. Kiyoomi repeated, “Okay.”

Miya liked to tease, Kiyoomi found out.

But it was totally ruined by how _inexperienced_ he was with his _mouth_.

“Have you ever given a blowjob, Miya?” Kiyoomi asked, tugging on Miya’s hair, tilting his head so he could look at Kiyoomi properly.

Miya hummed and let Kiyoomi’s member slip out of his mouth, “Once, maybe twice. I’m usually the one to receive blowjob.”

Kiyoomi scoffed, “You’re awful at it.”

Miya pouted, “Well, I’m sorry I haven’t sucked many dicks, OmiOmi!”

“Whatever,” Kiyoomi shrugged and pulled Miya up before changing their positions. Miya squeaked, his fingers immediately taking purchase on Kiyoomi’s bare shoulder. Kiyoomi ignored Miya’s sound of protest in lieu of kissing down his throat, tongue licking down his clavicle and to his nipple where Kiyoomi had tugged and sucked the hard buds for a few times.

“That feels— _weird_ , Omi,” Miya shivered as Kiyoomi sucked a nipple inside his mouth while rubbing the other.

Kiyoomi looked up, blew on Miya’s nipple and watched Miya’s mouth part, letting out a soft moan.

“But it feels good,” Kiyoomi said, matter-of-factly.

He continued to kiss down Miya’s abs, tongue dipping on the hard ridges before nipping on the flesh close to his jutting hipbones. Miya kept on breathing heavily under him, body twitching and hips bucking for attention.

With one last kiss, Kiyoomi slid his tongue down to where Miya’s length was dripping against his lower stomach. He mouths at it, fingers gentle on the throbbing member, pumping slowly.

“ _Ah,”_ Miya let out, nails digging on Kiyoomi’s scalp. “Omi.”

“Let me show you how to give a blowjob, Miya,” Kiyoomi said before sliding his mouth down Miya’s dick.

Miya let out a strangled moan, his fingers tugging on Kiyoomi’s hair, legs clasping Kiyoomi’s side. Kiyoomi rubbed Miya’s thighs, relaxing, calming. And when Miya moved his hips up, needy for attention, Kiyoomi started to bob his head up and down.

Several deep moans escaped from Miya’s lips as Kiyoomi went down on him; tongue licking the underside of his length, lips mouthing the tip of his dick, fingers playing with his balls.

Miya was left begging for release too soon and Kiyoomi smiled against his member, proud that he got Miya to beg him to come.

“Omi, coming.” Miya sobbed, his thighs shaking under Kiyoomi’s hold. “Please.”

“Hmm,” Kiyoomi hummed, swirled his tongue on the tip of Miya’s dick before pulling back. “Not yet.”

“ _What_.” Miya spat out, eyes forming into a glare.

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes and grabbed the bottle of lube, squirting a fair amount on his palm before reaching back, rubbing his own fingers against his ass.

“Let’s fuck,” Kiyoomi shrugged. “We’re already here.”

Miya blinked, sat up a little, leaning on his elbows. “ _Oh_.” He squinted his eyes, looking at Kiyoomi’s arm poised behind his back. “Are you fingering yourself…”

“Sure,” Kiyoomi shrugged again, blush high on his cheeks. “I can also fuck you if you want.” Miya sucked his lower lip, watching Kiyoomi intently.

“I haven’t— you know—“ Miya looked away, embarrassed.

“Haven’t been fucked before?” Kiyoomi smiled, reassuring. “Then you can fuck me today.” Kiyoomi hummed, slipping a finger inside himself, pumping slowly. “So...wanna fuck? No?”

Miya stared at Kiyoomi for a moment, different emotions passing through his eyes. Kiyoomi shuffled, pulled his fingers back from his ass, and sat properly on the bed, legs spread wide.

Then Miya answered, breathy, eyes dark, aroused, “Yeah.” He added, “Hell yeah.”  
  


*****

  
Nothing changed.

After they’d slept with each other, Miya acted the same. Kiyoomi acted the same.

Kiyoomi had treated it as the same thing he had with Naoya. They slept together and they go on their own ways the morning after. No connection, no strings attached.

No relationship to think about.

It was the same as when they’d made out with each other after celebrating their win against the Adlers. Miya had acted the same as that time; like he hadn’t just fucked Kiyoomi into orgasm or that Kiyoomi hadn’t watched Miya beg for him to let him come.

They were the same people before and after they’d slept with each other and Kiyoomi, initially, was _okay_ with that.

Until it happened again.

And again.  
  


**_—hyogō prefecture, japan: 31.12.18—_ **

  
Miya had continued to drag Kiyoomi on little _hang-outs_ that seemed liked _dates_ throughout their holiday break. Kiyoomi, who wasn’t too keen on traveling back to Tokyo and the cold house where his mother lived, had let Miya take him anywhere.

The day before New Year’s Eve, Miya had asked him to join his family for the _Hatsumode._ Kiyoomi had agreed and they’d driven to _Hyogō_ early on New Year’s Eve, Kiyoomi behind the wheel and Miya snoring on the passenger seat. When they’d arrived in Miya’s childhood house, they were met with a kind mother who fussed over Miya’s, apparently, thin face. Kiyoomi, for the first time after High School, had meet Miya Osamu once again.

Miya Osamu had scrunched his nose at him, said, “Ah, did he drag ya here?”

Kiyoomi shrugged, slinging his and Miya’s duffle bag on his shoulders. “I had no plans.”

“What about yer family?” Miya Osamu asked without looking away from his mother and brother.

“Busy,” Kiyoomi replied, short.

Miya Osamu had turned to him, opened his mouth, then closed it when he couldn’t find the proper words to reply to Kiyoomi’s answer.

“Well,” Miya Osamu said instead. “Yer welcome here.”

Kiyoomi breathed a quiet sigh of relief, nodded. “Thanks.”

Right then, the twins’ mother turned her attention from Miya to Kiyoomi. She walked to him, reached out, then was stopped by a soft touch on her wrist.

“Mama, Omi isn’t fond of people touching—“

“It’s okay,” Kiyoomi said, looking at Miya’s mother. She looked warm, _motherly_. The kind of mother who loved to stay at home and care for her children. Kiyoomi swallowed, smiled. “Hello,” Kiyoomi bowed a little. “I’m Sakusa Kiyoomi, thank you for having me.”

Then she cupped his face with both hands, eliciting a surprised squeak from Miya. Kiyoomi ignored Miya and focused on the woman in front of her.

“Ya look even thinner than my Atsumu!” She exclaimed, expression exasperated. “What are ya all athletes been eatin’!” She clicked her tongue then let go of Kiyoomi’s face to grab his wrist and dragged him inside. “Come, come. I’ll feed ya lots of food. Once _Hatsuhinode_ arrives, ya will be twice yer weight.”

Kiyoomi’s eyes widened. He turned to Miya, standing by his brother. Both of them were snickering behind their hands, eyes filled with mirth. Kiyoomi tried to convey to Miya that eating twice his weight until the sunrise was _unhealthy_. And _hatsuhinode_? Miya hadn’t told him about that.

“OmiOmi, welcome to our family,” Miya laughed, following his mother and Kiyoomi inside.

Kiyoomi could only sigh.

 _Oh well_.

Miya’s— _Atsumu’s_ family was loud.

The better description of them would be _happy_.

Kiyoomi knew there were different kinds of happiness; a quiet one, a loud one, a suppressed one, a sad one. Happiness didn’t really mean being _happy;_ it was the state of accepting what was in front of you and being content with it.

Happiness was the feeling of _content_.

And the Miya’s showed it perfectly; in the way they interact with each other, sometimes a slap to the back, sometimes a flick to the forehead, sometimes with crude words.

Kiyoomi had sat on the _tatami_ floor, legs crossed under the blanket that draped over the huge _kotatsu_ placed in the middle of the living area _._ The Miya family lived humbly yet some of what they possess showed _wealth_. Like how their house was in a more quiet part of the town, built side by side by equally newly built houses. And there was also their modern television that was as wide as Kiyoomi’s arm span, and the little scattered trinkets around the house.

“Where’re ya from, kid?” Miya— _Atsumu’s_ father asked, sitting on the other side of the _kotatsu_ , watching the television.

Kiyoomi answered, “Tokyo.”

“Ah, a city boy, huh?” He chuckled while changing the channel on the television. “Well, yer welcome here. ‘m gonn’ give ya a heads up right now. Ya better finish what my wife put on yer plate. She’s strict about that.”

“Oh,” Kiyoomi blinked, then nodded. “Thank you.”

“No problem, no problem. Atsumu was excited to bring ya. Only right for me ta treat ya well,” Atsumu’s father reached out and patted Kiyoomi’s shoulder.

Then a sound of glass breaking pierced through the air, followed by Miya’s mother shouting,

“Osamu, Atsumu! How many times must I tell ya ta not fight in the kitchen. Imbeciles! Go to yer father. Ya three are useless ta me.”

Kiyoomi stared at Miya’s father who shrugged at him, huge grin on his face, “I love that woman.”

“Huh…” Kiyoomi breathed out, confused.

And when dinner came, the family and Kiyoomi gathered around the _kotatsu,_ several dishes in front of them. Miya’s mother was hellbent on feeding Kiyoomi and Atsumu so much that their little plate was brimming with _datemaki,_ various dishes from the _osechi_ plate, _kobumaki, onigiri_ and a side bowl of _yakisoba_. Kiyoomi had stared at his plate, then at Miya’s who was sitting beside him.

Miya giggled, quiet enough that only Kiyoomi could hear. He leaned over and whispered, “Don’t worry, Omi. Ya don’t have to finish everything. Mama won’t be mad at ya. Me, on the other hand…”

Kiyoomi nudged Miya’s legs under the _kotatsu_ blanket, whispering back, “I’ll help you.”

Miya scrunched his nose at him, “Hmpf, I eat more than ya. I bet ya will need my help.”

Kiyoomi cocked a brow, smirk forming on his lips, “Is that a challenge, M— _Atsumu_?”

Atsumu smirked back, “Winner gets a prize.”

“You’re on.”

At the end of dinner, none of them finished their plate and Atsumu’s mother could only call them _weak_.

Actually she’d said, “Ya two are such scrubs. Come home more often so ya can eat proper food. Look at Osamu, he looks healthier than ya two.”

She’d called them sc _rubs_. Scrubs.

Kiyoomi had blanked at that while Atsumu fought with Osamu on who was stronger. Of course, Atsumu had lost. Kiyoomi had expected nothing less.

All in all, Kiyoomi had enjoyed their first dinner together. It had the sort of warm atmosphere that Kiyoomi had never experienced before. And when he’d laid beside Miya on a futon big enough for two in the living room, Kiyoomi had whispered,

“Thank you.”

Atsumu had turned to him, smiled, and briefly nuzzled his face against Kiyoomi’s shoulder.

“Anytime, OmiOmi.”  
  


*****

  
The next day, they were woken up at five in the morning by Atsumu’s mother. And once she’d prepared everything on a picnic bag big enough for a week long excursion, she’d led them out.

Atsumu’s mother drove with his father and Osamu while Kiyoomi had driven with Atsumu.

“‘m so tired,” Atsumu moaned, thumping his forehead against the window.

“Hmm,” Kiyoomi replied, listening to the robotic instructions coming out of his phone that’s connected to his car. “We’re almost there.”

“But ’s so _early,_ ” Atsumu continued, breathing in deeply. “Gonn' sleep by the beach.”

“Uh… _beach_?” Kiyoomi cocked a brow.

“Yepp,” Atsumu grinned, eyes crinkling into a smile. “It’s a Miya tradition to spend _hatsuhinode_ by the beach. It’s a pretty sight.”

“Oh,” Kiyoomi breathed out. “Okay.”

“Yeah,” Atsumu hummed, a smile in his voice. “Ya will like it, Omi-kun.”

“I bet.”  
  


**— _takenohama, toyooka-shi: 01.01.19—_**

  
Kiyoomi did like it.

The beach wasn’t as packed as he’d expected it to be. _Takenohama_ was a small beach half an hour from where Atsumu’s childhood home stood. The sand was white and there were small mountains surrounding it from the side, a protection from the wind.

When they’d arrived, Atsumu’s mother ushered them to set the blanket on the sand and proceeded to fix the snacks that she’d brought with her. And when they’d settled down, the slightly dark sky had become an orange and pink hue, an obvious tell of the incoming sunrise.

Kiyoomi sat on the beach blanket, the sun still slowly coming up from behind the mountains. The orange rays were bright and beautiful, peeking through the gaps on the mountains and reflecting on the ocean. Kiyoomi breathed in, basking in the cold weather and the warmth from the rising sun.

“Coffee?” Atsumu offered, sitting beside him, shoulder to shoulder with two paper cups filled with coffee.

Kiyoomi turned to him, smiled, and took the cup. “Thanks.”

“It’s beautiful, right?” Atsumu asked, looking at the sun rising from the east.

Kiyoomi looked at him then, the mess of his hair on top of his head, the scarf wrapped around his neck, the huge jacket covering his form and the gloves fitted loosely on his hands. Atsumu blinked and the orange rays of the sun casted shadows from his eyelashes, long and thick.

Then he turned to Kiyoomi, soft smile on his face and Kiyoomi felt his heart skip a beat.

A quiet _thud_ ; like a pebble against a window; a stone skipping the lake; a soft knock on the door of his heart.

Atsumu cocked a brow, reached out, and rubbed his gloved hand on Kiyoomi’s cheek, said,

“You look cold, Omi.”

Kiyoomi swallowed, stared at Atsumu and breathed out, “Yeah.”

Atsumu continued to rub Kiyoomi’s cheek and Kiyoomi let him, heart beating a slow rhythm inside his chest.

 _Thud;_ Atsumu turned away and looked at the sun rising, rays of the sun reflecting on his hazel eyes.

 _Thud;_ Kiyoomi took Atsumu’s hand from his cheek and grasped it in between his before turning around, watching as the sun fully rose above the horizon.

_Thud;_

Atsumu whispered, “Beautiful.”

Kiyoomi tilted his head, gaze settled on Atsumu’s side profile, replied, “Yeah.”

Kiyoomi swallowed to himself.

_Oh._

Fuck.

Kiyoomi wasn’t given any time to ponder over his realisation. After watching the sun rise fully up in the sky, they drove back to the Miya residence, ate a traditional japanese breakfast and was told to stay put until it was time to go to the shrine for _hatsumode._

Atsumu and Osamu tag teamed and had a competition of who could make the best _onigiri_ for a late lunch. Their father offered to be the judge and their mother scoffed at them, calling them _kids_. Kiyoomi, honestly, didn’t see the point. Osamu was the owner of _Onigiri Miya_. What was the point in competing with him?

Kiyoomi didn’t stay to watch the twins compete and instead went for a quick run, just to clear his head. Once he’d excused himself from the family, Kiyoomi had donned his sweatpants and windbreaker and went for a much needed run in the cold winter weather.

While running, Kiyoomi thought back to what happened on the beach, when the sun was casting orange rays on his skin and when Atsumu had smiled small, sweet, while looking at the scenery.

Was that really his heart that _thudded,_ skipping a half-beat when he’d seen Atsumu under the bright rays?

Kiyoomi had thought he’d stopped thinking of Atsumu as the sun because he _wasn’t_. He was just a human being who’d made Kiyoomi _feel_ and _yearn_ for something that was once unattainable. Kiyoomi had now attained it; that _joy_ he’d seen on Atsumu’s face when they’d played against each other.

He knew he’d been jealous then.

Jealousy turned to respect.

Respect had allowed him to stop putting Atsumu on a pedestal.

And that had led him to now.

He’d never thought of falling for someone, of _liking_ someone, especially Miya Atsumu.

Kiyoomi panted and paused on running, looking to the side and finding an empty playground. He breathed out heavily, then in, just as heavy, feeling like he’d run for miles on end.

 _Him_ liking _Miya_?

Kiyoomi shook his head, swallowed the little saliva on his tongue.

_Impossible._

Miya was just someone who Kiyoomi shared _heat_ with, when their bodies connect and their lips kissed, they were just using each other. There was nothing more to it. Miya was the same as Naoya and all the people Kiyoomi had slept with.

He wasn’t— _special_.

It must be a fluke.

It had to be.

After his run, Kiyoomi was ushered by Miya’s mother to change into a _kimono_.

Kiyoomi, still panting and dripping with sweat, stared at her. She laughed at him and patted his arm, saying,

“Go shower, Kiyoomi-kun. We’ll be leaving in an hour.”

“Thank you,” Kiyoomi bowed and quickly went to shower.

Entering Miya’s room—technically, the twin brothers’ room—where his belongings were, he saw Miya laying on the bottom bunk, playing with his phone. When he heard Kiyoomi step inside, he’d turned his attention to him and grinned.

“Omi, how was the run?” Miya asked, throwing his phone on the bed.

Kiyoomi shrugged, “Cold.”

Miya laughed, soft and bright, “Well, it’s winter. What did ya expect.”

Kiyoomi shrugged again and gathered his clothes and toiletries before leaving Miya in the bedroom without saying anything else.

His mind was still _confused_. And he’d wanted to think more of what that meant but also, he wanted to just— _forget_. There was no point in thinking much about it. It was nothing. There was no deeper meaning about it.

Kiyoomi told himself that as he showered.

And he told himself that when Miya helped him with the _kimono_.

And he told himself that as they walked to _Izushi Shrine_ where each people they’d pass by had either paid their respects already or were the same as them, still heading to the shrine.

“ _Hatsumode_ ,” Miya sing-songed beside him, his hands clasped together in front of him. He was wearing a black _kimono_ with a red _obi_ wrapped around his waist and a _haori_ slung around his shoulders. He looked— _handsome_. “I’m glad we’re spending it together, Omi-kun,” Miya smiled, small and genuine.

Kiyoomi felt his heart give a soft _thud_ once again; different from the norm.

Humming, he nodded, said, “Yeah.” And added, “Me too.”

( Kiyoomi had joined his hand in front of the offering hall when they got to the shrine. He’d thanked the gods of the blessings he’d received from last year. He’d thank them for his life; this strong body of his that could play volleyball and enjoy what he loved. He’d thanked them for his family despite them not being so close anymore. He’d thanked them for his understanding team. And, with a brief of hesitation, he’d thanked them for _Miya_ ; for the things that Miya had showed him and made him experience.

He didn’t wish for anything because he’d gotten pretty much everything he’d wished for. And so he’d settled with thanking the deities.

Because Kiyoomi was thankful.

And yet, when they’d come back from the shrine, he’d felt like he should have wished for something. )  
  


**[ _Osaka, Japan: January 2019_ ]**

  
After New Year’s, the Jackals had several games on schedule.

Thinking and mulling over his emotions had taken a backseat, periodically forgotten and visited as Kiyoomi practiced with the team.

Kiyoomi wanted to say that he’d resolved what was going on with him— and in extension, _Miya_ , throughout January but that would be a lie. In fact, Kiyoomi didn’t even know if there was _something_ to resolve in between them since Miya had never _hinted_ in wanting to be anything more. He always acted normal after they’d slept with each other and Kiyoomi loathed to _ruin_ this arrangement of theirs.

And so January passed; winter wind changing into milder but more humid weather.

Kiyoomi and Atsumu had continued to act the same and Kiyoomi felt _relief_ in knowing that. Miya still sometimes hovered his hand in the air even though he’d gotten used to touching Kiyoomi unrestricted when they were alone. Kiyoomi had entertained the thought of Miya thinking that Kiyoomi wasn’t much into _public display of affection_ —which wasn’t true because Kiyoomi had _never been_ into a relationship before so he _didn’t know_ if he was or was not into it—and was being considerate in not being clingy towards Kiyoomi.

In general, Miya wasn’t a clingy person, Kiyoomi had observed. At least, towards him.

When they’d went to Osaka-jō and had strolled around, Miya had kept his distance, always standing and walking a few centimetres away from Kiyoomi. Plus, even when they’d slept in the same _futon_ in the Miya residence, Miya had kept an invisible line between them. Kiyoomi had never thought about this line that Miya had drawn in between them, public or private. But thinking about it now—

The consideration was much appreciated, Kiyoomi thought. It was _nice_ to know that someone who Kiyoomi regularly fucked _knew_ what personal space was. Although the same could not be said in terms of _text messaging_ , Kiyoomi still appreciated the Miya who’d never clung to Kiyoomi.

These days though, Kiyoomi felt like— _Miya_ was too _far_. Like the distance between them was becoming larger and Kiyoomi didn’t know what to think about that. Didn’t know if it that was even the case. Didn’t know if he’d done something wrong to make the distance between them feel like miles. Didn’t know if Miya was getting _tired_ of them— of this— of whatever they were.

Kiyoomi’s worries came to a stand still when one day—around the end of _January,_ sitting on a bench inside _Hirakata Park_ for another of their _hang-outs,_ Miya had bluntly told him what Kiyoomi already _knew_.

Feeling brave after riding the roller coaster, Kiyoomi had turned to Miya who was giggling to himself, clutching a picture of both of them screaming their lungs out after the roller coaster dropped. Kiyoomi had to pay a thousand yen for that picture and all Miya had done since seeing it was _laugh_ at his face.

“Omi—“

“Miya—“

“Oh, you first, Omi.” Miya grinned, tilting his head in curiosity.

“Miya—“

“ _Atsumu!”_ Miya scrunched his nose. “Ya started calling me Atsumu at home but quickly went back to calling me Miya after coming back to Osaka,” Miya pouted, looking at Kiyoomi snidely.

“Fine, _Atsumu_ ,” Kiyoomi sighed. He looked at Miya, studied his face for the millionth time in his life and breathed in, feeling his heart thud just a tad harder inside his ribcage. Kiyoomi swallowed, pulled his mask down, opened his mouth and quickly asked, “Are these dates we’ve been having?”

There. _There_ , it was out.

Miya had looked at Kiyoomi for a while then _laughed_ , throwing his head back, his bangs flopping on his forehead as he bent back over his knees, clutching his stomach.

Kiyoomi had frowned, feeling embarrassed, _ashamed_. Was he a joke? Was what he said really that _funny_?

“Miya—“

“No, Omi-kun, wait—“ Miya said in between giggles. He then straightened up and breathed in deeply, turning to Kiyoomi with a deep blush on his cheeks. “Ah, OmiOmi.” He sing-songed and reached out, patting Kiyoomi’s shoulder. “Did ya wanna go on a date with me, Omi-kun?” Miya tilted his head, an eyebrow cocked, mirth dancing in his eyes.

Kiyoomi furrowed his brows and pursed his lips, trying to _decipher_ what Miya really felt. But Miya only showed a smile on his lips and his eyes looked at Kiyoomi expectantly, _curiously_.

“No,” Kiyoomi answered, feeling a twist inside his chest after the word flew with the wind. “Why would I want that?”

Miya laughed again and patted Kiyoomi’s shoulder more before pulling his hand back. “Right?” He hummed. “We’re nothing more than friends, OmiOmi. Friends with benefits, if we have to get technical! We’re also teammates! Aren’t we close enough?”

Nothing more than friends.

Huh.

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi nodded and quirked his lips into a smirk. “Why would you say we’re friends though? We’re less than that.” Kiyoomi teased, just to focus on something other than the _too familiar_ pain in his gut.

Miya stuck his tongue out, punching Kiyoomi’s arm just a tad bit harder. “We are! You met my family.”

Kiyoomi relented, shrugging, “Fine. We’re friends.”

Friends.

Ha.

And as normal for them when they go on their _hang-outs_ , not _dates_ , they end up in one of their places. This time, it was Kiyoomi’s.

Miya was sprawled on Kiyoomi’s bed, dark sheets a contrast to his slightly tanned body. Kiyoomi dragged his fingers down Miya’s body, eliciting a breathy moan from him. He hummed at the sound as his other hand pushed inside Miya, delighting at the squeeze around his fingers when he’d rubbed Miya’s sweet spot.

“Uh— Omi- _kun,”_ Miya groaned, bucking his hips, fucking back on Kiyoomi’s fingers. “Yer fingers— so _good._ ”

“You liked my fingers, _Atsumu?_ ” Kiyoomi asked, a rhetorical question, but Miya nodded anyways, half-lidded eyes staring at Kiyoomi, arousal swimming in his gaze.

“ _Yeah— fuck—_ I love them,” Miya hummed, his own fingers pumping his hard length. “Wanna come but I want ya inside.”

Kiyoomi chuckled, scissoring his fingers. He leaned down, nipped at Miya’s thick thighs, leaving a slight mark on his heated skin.

“Look at you, asking for my cock when just a few weeks ago you’d been moaning about never having taken a dick before,” Kiyoomi teased, adding a third finger inside Miya’s heat.

Miya groaned, thumped his feet against Kiyoomi’s side and said, “I was an _ass virgin_. Fuck off, OmiOmi! Be happy that yer the only dick that has the pleasure to fuck me.”

Kiyoomi laughed as he curled his fingers inside Miya, making Miya tremble on the sheets and grip the soft fabric on his hands.

“I _am_ happy, Atsumu,” Kiyoomi said, taking his fingers out and dribbling more lube on his hands, gripping his hard length and positioning it against Miya’s entrance. And with a grunted _thank you_ just to rile up Miya, Kiyoomi pushed his member inside Miya’s warm heat.

Both of them let out loud moans, breathing in and out heavily as Kiyoomi allowed himself to get used to Miya’s tight insides. Every time, it felt like the _first time_. Miya always _moaned_ loudly just like the first time Kiyoomi fucked him. And Miya always clutched him close, kissing Kiyoomi’s jaw, his chin, just like the first time.

And Miya always said, “ _Move, Omi. Wanna feel ya_.”

Just like the first time.

Kiyoomi fucked Miya hard and fast, gripping his thighs and kissing his neck, careful to never leave long lasting marks. He pushed his length inside Miya again and again until Miya was a blabbering and begging mess, crying for Kiyoomi to make him _come_.

“Omi— come— _please_ ,” Miya begged, mouth against Kiyoomi’s lips as Kiyoomi pushed his dick deeper inside him. “ _So good_ ,” Miya moaned. “Wanna _come— OmiOmi—“_

And when Miya came, it was always different than the first time or the last time. This time he came with a moan against Kiyoomi’s lips, Kiyoomi’s fingers around his length pumping fast as white liquid spurted on his stomach and his hand. He came while breathing against Kiyoomi’s chin, eyes staring at Kiyoomi’s own, swimming with an undecipherable emotion. Kiyoomi hadn’t focused then, busy in chasing his own orgasm that he’d achieved after pumping his dick inside Miya one, two, _three times_. He’d come on the condom hard, body tensing then shivering on top of Miya.

And when they’d come down from their release, condom thrown on the garbage, wet cloth discarded on the ground, Miya had turned to Kiyoomi, said,

“Actually, I like you.”

Simple, clear, _concise._

Kiyoomi turned to him, feeling like the sweat on his back had turned to ice, a wake-up call.

“Miya—“

“Sorry, I know it’s stupid. I was just— I lied earlier, ya know? I knew we couldn’t be more than friends so… I said that. But— yeah— I like you. I just wanted ya to know,” Miya said, brave and clear and voice trembling at the very end.

Kiyoomi swallowed, heart in his throat, _nervous_ , “Sorry.”

“Ya don’ have to be,” Miya smiled, closed his eyes. “I just wanted ya to know,” he repeated then turned from Kiyoomi, showing his back.

Kiyoomi laid there, looking at Miya’s back, the small tremble of his shoulders, the heavy breaths he was letting out, the curl of his body. He looked _vulnerable._ He must have felt _vulnerable_ , confessing like this after lying and telling Kiyoomi they were _no more than friends_.

He must be in pain.

Kiyoomi clenched his fists, digging his nails on his palms before relaxing and turning on his side. He reached out and pulled Miya close to him, feeling his whole body shaking, hearing small hiccups.

“I’m sorry,” Kiyoomi whispered, holding Miya close.

Miya nodded, hiding his face from Kiyoomi.

In the end, it was Kiyoomi who didn’t know anything. He _knew_ none of what Miya felt, nothing of what was going on with him; with them.

Kiyoomi whispered, once again,

“I’m sorry.”

*****

If Kiyoomi had to describe how Miya was after the confession— Kiyoomi could say nothing but _normal_.

The morning they’d woken up after that anti-climactic confession and… _rejection_ , Miya had said nothing else. Well, he’d greeted Kiyoomi _good morning_ but said nothing about what had happened. Even when his eyes were puffy and his cheeks were painted with dry tear tracks, he didn’t lash out, didn’t blame Kiyoomi, didn’t say anything but:

“ _Good morning, Omi-kun!”_

Kiyoomi had thought of what was _good_ with that morning when Miya had obviously cried himself to sleep. But Kiyoomi didn’t breach the subject again, lest he opened a wound.

Instead, Kiyoomi smiled, small, soft, and replied, “Good morning, _Atsumu.”_

Miya had grinned at him and twirled then pranced towards the bathroom, exclaiming, “Omi should cook breakfast!”

Kiyoomi sat up on the bed slowly, leaning his back against the headboard as he watched Miya disappear from behind the bathroom door. He could hear the shower turn on and Kiyoomi let himself get lost in his thoughts.

It wasn’t like— he _hated_ Miya.

It wasn’t because he didn’t like _Miya_ that he’d rejected him. Kiyoomi didn’t even _know_ why he’d rejected Miya. He’d felt _scared_ when Miya had uttered those words, had felt like everything was falling from its place, like he didn’t have any clue of what was happening.

And he _didn’t_.

Kiyoomi had never fallen before; physically, _yes_ but romantically? _No._

When Miya had confessed, it felt like a fissure had appeared inside the carefully built walls around his heart, like a crack that had finally gotten so big that all Kiyoomi could do was _nothing_. He could do nothing but listen to the beating of his heart as Miya had uttered _‘I just wanted ya to know.’_ He could do nothing but _apologise_ because he didn’t know what to do.

Was it the right time now? To settle down?

To have someone beside him?

_Miya Atsumu?_

Kiyoomi hadn’t known and so he’d ended up hurting Miya.

Kiyoomi wanted to say that it was going to be _okay_ because Miya would forget him soon enough but that thought left a bitter taste on his tongue and Kiyoomi wondered what it meant;

For him.

For Atsumu.  
  


**[ _Higashi-ōsaka, Japan:_ _start of February 2019_ ]**

  
It was odd, Kiyoomi thought.

Because despite being rejected, Miya still slept with Kiyoomi.

Was it hope that made him do it? Did he think time would make Kiyoomi reciprocate?

Kiyoomi had asked him once, after practice, while walking to the parking lot,

“Are you alright?”

Miya had turned to Kiyoomi, cocked a brow in question, “What d’ya mean, Omi-kun? I was in perfect shape today.”

“No, I mean— You like me?” Kiyoomi said and Miya nodded. “And you don’t think there’s something wrong with continuing to fool around with me?”

Miya had let out a snort and rolled his eyes, “Don’t worry, Omi-kun. I’m still moving on! And it hurts sometimes but since ya don’t hate me like I thought ya would, I’m content with that.”

“Oh,” Kiyoomi breathed out, paused beside his car. Miya’s car was parked two spaces from his. “You’re not waiting for me to like you?”

This time, Miya laughed loudly, throwing his head back as he leaned on the roof of his own car.

“If time could do that, you’d have liked me since last year, Omi,” Miya said, voice soft. “I don’t have hopes or dreams or _whatever_ it is that yer thinking. I jus’ wanna be with ya for now. Who knows? Maybe next week I’ve already moved on.” He chuckled, pulling his keys from his pockets.

Last year? Kiyoomi blinked, watched Miya throw his gym bag on the passenger seat of his car and leaned on the opened door, looking back at Kiyoomi.

“Ya okay there, OmiOmi?” Miya called out, waving his hand.

Kiyoomi squinted his eyes at him and nodded. He ignored the prickling under his skin, like millions of needles creating goosebumps on his body.

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi nodded. “Thank you for clarifying it.”

Miya shrugged, “No problem. It’s whatever.”

“Okay,” Kiyoomi nodded. “See you tomorrow, Miya.”

“See ya,” Miya waved and entered his car, slamming his door after.

Kiyoomi watched him pull from the parking lot and smiled when he honked at him twice before disappearing from view.

Kiyoomi stood there, beside his car and thought of what Miya had told him.

Miya had so easily told him that he’d liked him since _last year_. But when? When did it start? On June; when the Jackals had gone to a training camp in _Tokyo?_ Or was it in August; when Miya had started to get over his habit of hovering his hands in the air and instead started asking Kiyoomi for high-fives? Maybe when they’d have that welcome party for Hinata; when Miya got drank and had fallen asleep on the bench?

Kiyoomi stood there, feeling his heart _thud; louder, harder, quicker._

He wondered if he’d made a mistake.  
  


**[ _Takasaki, Japan: V. League Division 1, End of February 2019_ ]**

  
Every year, all teams that belonged to the V. League Division 1 competed for who would win the namesake competition.

MSBY Black Jackals had won every game they had played since August. Kiyoomi, who was still integrating himself in the team, had officially played with Jackals since November. With the exception of non-official games, Kiyoomi could say he’d only contributed _half_ of the victory the Jackals had this season.

Nonetheless, Kiyoomi had proved himself _worthy_ of belonging in Division 1 and he’d shown everyone that in the next games that had led to now, the final game against EJP from _Hoshū_.

When Kiyoomi saw Motoya enter the court, Kiyoomi grinned at him, head tilting to the side, just a little bit taunting.

“Kiyo!” Motoya had exclaimed from behind the net. “You’ll lose today,” he said, grinning back.

Kiyoomi snorted, stretching his wrist, “You wish. Jackals will win today.”

“True!” Miya piped in, sudden. “Sunarin! Just ya wait, I’ll kick yer ass this time.”

Suna Rintarou, whom Kiyoomi could barely remember from high school, joined Motoya, back slouched with a cocky smirk on his lips.

“Yeah, right,” Suna rolled his eyes, “Loser buys drinks, ‘tsumu.”

“Call!” Miya chirped, sticking out his tongue towards the other man.

“Ah,” Suna then grinned at Miya, teasing. “Remember _Aki?_ ” Miya froze then blushed hard, sputtering. “She’s watching the game.”

“Rin!” Miya exclaimed, coming closer to the net, a few spaces away from Kiyoomi. “We’re not— ya know.” He gestured wild with his hands, lips turning into a pout.

Kiyoomi narrowed his eyes, curious. _What_.

“Ah, but she came back for you, ‘tsumu,” Suna snickered. “At least greet her.”

Miya huffed, glared at Suna, then sighed, nodding, “Fine. Since she’s _yer_ childhood friend.”

“But you liked her,” Suna said, deadpan, blunt.

Kiyoomi narrowed his eyes as he changed from one wrist to the other. He swallowed and looked away from Miya’s flushed face, meeting Motoya’s gaze immediately. His cousin was looking at him with a calculating gaze, lips pursed in concentration, eyes squinted as he stared at Kiyoomi.

“What,” Kiyoomi frowned as he cracked his fingers.

Motoya grinned, “Hmm, interesting.” He hummed, nodding to himself. Kiyoomi glared. “Kiyo, you should call me more often.”

Kiyoomi made a face then shrugged, “No.”

Then the signal for the start of the game came and Kiyoomi and Miya had to huddle with the Jackals, listen to Coach Foster’s first set game play and nodded at Meian’s encouraging words.

Yeah, they were going to win this.

Professional Volleyball competitions were nothing like High School competitions. It was harder, more intense, required faster thinking, needed a higher stamina.

Kiyoomi had those. And yet, when Miya shouted, “ _Omi-kun!”_ before setting the ball in an odd form, Kiyoomi had still _failed_ to score.

Kiyoomi had run to the side, jumped as high as he could, observed the parameters for a perfect shot, and looked out for blockers.

Still, when he spiked, Suna Rintarou, along with Washio Tatsuki, were suddenly _there_ blocking the ball and making it bounce back to the Jackal’s side where it fell on the ground and making the score 23-25, to EJP’s lead.

And just like that, the game ended; with sweat dripping down his skin and breath coming out of him in heavy pants and regret blooming in his chest, Kiyoomi’s first final competition with the Jackals ended.

> Match Set 3-2.
> 
> Top Server: Miya Atsumu.
> 
> V. League Division 1 First Place: EJP Raijin from _Hoshū_.

There was a bitter taste on his tongue when they had to shake hands with EJP. When he met Suna Rintarou’s gaze, the middle blocker cocked a brow at him, challenging. Then he looked away and turned his attention to Miya, grinning and teasing Miya about buying him, as well as Miya Osamu and _Aki_ , drinks after.

“Good game,” Motoya said and Kiyoomi sighed, turning his head towards him.

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi smiled, just a little. “Next time, it’ll be our win.”

Motoya smiled back, “We’ll see, Kiyo. We’ll see.”

“Motoya, wanna join?” Suna Rintarou appeared beside Motoya as a tug on Kiyoomi’s jersey made him turn to the side to meet Miya’s bright gaze.

“OmiOmi, wanna join for dinner? Bo-kun and Shouyou-kun is joining too. The other’s didn’t want to go out,” He shrugged, tugged on Kiyoomi’s jersey once again. “I’ll buy drinks.”

Kiyoomi gazed at him, considering the pros and cons of coming with these people to dinner after playing a game that they’d lost epically. On one hand, Kiyoomi was _curious_ ; he had this nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach that made him _want_ to know what would happen if he came; would he meet this _Aki_? Would Miya act the same or different? Was Miya lying to him about liking him?

But on the other hand, Kiyoomi really just wanted to _wallow_ in the quiet of his hotel room right now. They were only staying for a night and he was sharing the room with Bokuto. If he refused, then he might get a few hours of peace, might fall asleep before Bokuto came back with the others.

Kiyoomi swallowed, looked at Miya intently, studying his face; expectant, pleading.

Kiyoomi opened his mouth, about to answer, when Motoya exclaimed, “Kiyo, you should join! We haven’t had dinner together for a while.”

Kiyoomi breathed in, then out, nodded, and said, “Okay.”

Miya beamed; happy, excited.

Kiyoomi’s heart clenched at the sight.

Breathe in, breathe out.

_Aki_ was a petite girl with long black hair, small cute face, and soft voice.

The moment she’d seen Miya, she’d stood up from the chair and jumped on Miya, hugging him tightly. Miya had been frozen at first before returning her hug, smiling widely.

“Welcome back,” Miya had whispered, loud enough for their group to hear.

“I’m back, Atsu,” Aki replied, pulling back and smiling up at Atsumu.

If Kiyoomi wasn’t feeling so— so _weird_ seeing Miya with someone who could just hug him like that and call him _Atsu_ so familiarly, Kiyoomi would have appreciated _Aki_ more. As it was, when Miya turned to him and introduced the girl, Kiyoomi was already _sizing_ her up; already studying her mannerisms, her quirks,and how she acted with Miya and the others who were from _Inarizaki_ compared to how she acted with Kiyoomi and the rest from Jackals.

“Omi, ya want?” Miya offered a slice of _tamagoyaki_ , reminding Kiyoomi of the first time he’d done that.

They were sitting beside each other again, Miya on his right side and Motoya on his left side. It was a tight fit in an _Izakaya_ but they made it work and there were no problems in their sitting arrangements.

Kiyoomi nodded and Miya grinned, dropping the slice on Kiyoomi’s plate.

“Sakusa-san, you’re an outside hitter?” Aki asked, smiling from across him and Miya.

Kiyoomi nodded at her question, picking the _tamagoyaki_ with his chopsticks and nibbling on it.

Miya chirped in, “Omi has bendy wrists! Have ya seen his spikes? They’re gross! Gross!”

Aki giggled and cocked a brow, “Gross? Are they really?”

“No,” Kiyoomi frowned and glared at Miya. He picked an _edamame_ and showed it inside Miya’s mouth when the setter opened his mouth to retaliate, already knowing the bullshit he would spout.

Miya sputtered and pouted, the end of the _edamame_ sticking from his mouth. He pulled it out with a tissue and rolled that tissue so the _edamame_ was covered fully.

“Omi!” Miya whined, poking his arm. “What was that for?”

“You were going to say something embarrassing,” Kiyoomi replied, shrugging.

Aki laughed then said, “But you failed the last spike? Hmm…”

The table went silent, looking at Aki. Kiyoomi stared at her, unblinking. She stared back at him, innocent.

Miya coughed, breaking the silence, and laughed awkwardly while saying, “Ah, but Sunarin and Washio-san blocked him! If they weren’t there Omi would have scored!”

“Hmm, well. I think Atsu is better,” She grinned, placing a barbecue stick on Miya’s plate. Miya thanked her, blushing.

Kiyoomi watched their interactions, feeling like he’d been _stabbed_ with a rusted knife. He didn’t know what to think of her or if he _thought_ of her as _something_ to _someone_.

She was a childhood friend of Suna Rintarou that apparently Miya had liked before she went to study in _France_. She’d come back now, after taking a leave from her intern job in a big fashion house in Paris.

Those were the scattered information that Kiyoomi _knew_. And by those details alone, Kiyoomi couldn’t _form_ an honest opinion. However, it was hard not to _loathe_ the way that she was _antagonistic_ towards him.

Did she know Miya liked him? Didn’t she know they weren’t together? Or was she _petty_ about Miya moving on from her? Did she hear about him rejecting Miya?

Kiyoomi took a gulp from his glass of beer, telling himself to not overthink anything. He was fine, nothing to worry about. His emotions were _stable_ , and with the exception of losing the game, Kiyoomi didn’t have any reason to feel more than rejected today.

Kiyoomi was fine.

Until Aki said,

“Atsu, don’t you wanna come with me to France?”

 _What_.

Miya choked on his _Chuhai_ and Kiyoomi reached out, patting his back. He turned to watch Aki in return, finding her glaring at him. He should be intimidated, a fierce girl like her glaring at him _like that_ , but Kiyoomi looked back while running his fingers up and down Atsumu’s back.

“Aki, you said you’ll ask him later,” Suna groaned, clicking his tongue at his childhood friend.

Aki shrugged, unapologetic, “I said I was thinking of asking him later. I didn’t say when _later_ was. I thought right now was a good chance. So… Atsu?”

Miya stared at her, meeting her eyes and Kiyoomi sat there, watching them. It felt like watching someone take something away from him, like someone was _stealing_ something valuable under his nose and Kiyoomi was just letting them.

But Miya wasn’t a _thing_. He was a person; a human being.

And for all its worth, Miya wasn’t Kiyoomi’s.

He never was.

Still, Kiyoomi moved, like a scared animal; standing and pulling Miya up with him, quickly dragging the setter outside, with the exclaims of the people from their table vanishing as the cold humid wind of February hit their cheeks.

“Omi-kun, what are ya doing?” Miya asked, looking at him, gaze blank, closed-off.

Kiyoomi swallowed, gripped Miya’s wrist tighter. “We’re going back.”

“But why—“

“We’re going back.” Kiyoomi cut him off, quick, sharp.

Because Kiyoomi didn’t know _why_.

Why, why, whywhywhy?

Kiyoomi didn’t know.

All he knew was that he _had_ to get Miya alone right now. Just tonight, today.

This time.

“Omi—“ Miya moaned, gripping Kiyoomi’s arm.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi replied, mouthing at the corner of Miya’s lips before kissing him fully, thrusting deeper and harder into Miya’s heat.

“Feels…Too much— Omi,” Miya whimpered, pulling back from the kiss and staring at Kiyoomi hovering above him.

Kiyoomi looked back, bangs swept back by Miya’s fingers. “Good,” Kiyoomi grunted, gripping Miya’s hips tight.

“ _Ah, ah,_ OmiOmi,” Miya held him close, arms tight around his neck as Kiyoomi pushed and pulled, harder and faster, trying to make sense of what he was feeling; of why he _had_ to touch Miya right that instance, of why he had to _have_ Miya right then and there.

He fucked Miya like he’d never done before; rough and fast, wanting to imprint himself in Miya’s being, wanting Miya to remember him and _only him_.

“Kiyoomi,” Miya whispered, breathy, soft. Kiyoomi moaned against his neck, feeling himself close to orgasm. “ _Like you. Likeyoulikeyoulikeyou._ ”

Kiyoomi bit Miya’s neck, letting the words wash over him; over his heart, over his mind, over his very being.

Maybe, just maybe, Miya wasn’t the only one who fell.  
  


*

  
“Kiyoomi-kun, hello,” Wakatoshi waved on the screen of Kiyoomi’s laptop. Kiyoomi nodded, smiling a little.

If Kiyoomi was honest, he didn’t really _know_ why he’d called Wakatoshi. Perhaps because Wakatoshi was a close friend. Perhaps because Wakatoshi was someone he respected and someone who’d listened to him and had given him multiple good advices before. Perhaps because Wakatoshi was in a healthy relationship that Kiyoomi had sought him for advice.

Perhaps.

“Wakatoshi-kun, how are you?” Kiyoomi asked, looking at himself on the screen instead of Wakatoshi.

Kiyoomi, for all that he wasn’t narcissistic, could say that he looked like _shit_ right now. He hadn’t slept properly for _days_ and practice was as exhausting as it was before. Add to that, he’d been thinking of _Miya_ since coming back from _Takasaki_ and it fucked up his rhythm.

Miya had fucked up Kiyoomi’s carefully made routines.

Wasn’t Miya just a body for Kiyoomi to use so he could stave off this _hunger_ for touch within him? Kiyoomi had pondered about this question for so long, he had forgotten why he was even questioning it. But every time that happened, the echoes of Miya’s _i like you_ ’s came haunting him and Kiyoomi would be reminded of why that question had appeared to him.

Kiyoomi had thought of it for days and had thought of talking to Miya about it but— but it felt _weird_ thinking of talking to Miya about it when the morning after their sexcapade in _Takasaki_ he’d said,

“Ah, Omi. Why’d ya fuck me so hard? Could’ve thought ya liked me.” And then he’d cackled, added, “‘m meeting Aki today so I wouldn’t be comin’ back with the team. I’ll see ya in Osaka, yeah?”

Kiyoomi had nodded, tongue-tied, feeling like he’d let a big opportunity pass by him.

Now, Kiyoomi was seeking an advice. From Wakatoshi.

“I’m good, Kiyoomi-kun. Satori took a vacation and came back from France last week.” Wakatoshi smiled, a rare sight. “I heard you lost to EJP in the finals.”

Kiyoomi hummed, running a hand through his hair, “Yeah. Butchered a spike and was blocked by Suna and Washio-san.”

“Washio-san is a good blocker. He should’ve joined Adlers,” Wakatoshi said, expression forming into contemplation.

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes, shaking his head at Wakatoshi’s words. For all he was a good man, he was also extremely blunt and the times Kiyoomi had heard Wakatoshi tell him that he should have gone to Adlers couldn’t be counted with two hands.

“EJP is a good team. And Adlers should have _recruited_ him,” Kiyoomi commented offhandedly, glancing at his phone when it made a _ping_ sound, seeing Miya’s name on the screen. He ignored it and focused on Wakatoshi again.

“So why did you ask to video call, Kiyoomi-kun?” Wakatoshi asked, tilting his head. Kiyoomi watched as Tendou briefly waved at the screen and dropped a kiss on top of Wakatoshi’s head. They look adorable.

When Tendou was out of the screen, Kiyoomi didn’t beat around the bush and said, “When did you know you liked Tendou-san, Wakatoshi-kun?”

Wakatoshi blinked, expression turning into surprise. Then he smiled, said, “I didn’t.”

“What?” Kiyoomi frowned, briefly looked down at his phone screen again, _atsumuwu!’_ s message of _omi! let’s celebrate your bday!_ stealing his attention for a beat.

“I didn’t know,” Wakatoshi said, humming to himself. Kiyoomi looked at him in question and Wakatoshi smiled, soft, “Satori told me that I liked him and that he liked me too. He showed me that the things we did were for couples and not just _best friends_. I thought about it and realised that he was right.”

“ _That_ simple? And you two became lovers after?” Kiyoomi questioned, baffled.

“As simple as that,” Wakatoshi replied. “Starting a relationship shouldn’t be so complicated. If you just look around and think about it, you’d realise that it’s always been there. You could start one right away if you want to. It doesn’t matter if you love them, as long as you see a future with them, that is enough.” He explained, clear and no nonsense. “Satori told me that, by the way. He said I should give him credit.” He frowned, looked to the side. Then his lips turned up, a sweet smile.

“Is Tendou-san listening to us?” Kiyoomi made a face, not knowing how to feel about that.

“What I know, he knows. There is no secret between us,” Wakatoshi explained, turning his attention back to Kiyoomi.

“Ah,” Kiyoomi breathed out, not even questioning how open the couple were to each other.

“Why are you asking this, Kiyoomi-kun?” Wakatoshi asked, curious.

“I was just…” Kiyoomi started, feeling his mouth dry at admitting that he _might_ like Miya Atsumu.

“Do you like someone?” Wakatoshi urged, blinking at Kiyoomi’s silent form. “Is it Miya Atsumu?”

There it is.

Kiyoomi felt his chest constrict, like someone had twisted it to torture him. His heart gave a _thump;_ like a candle that had been waiting to be lit for so long.

A small fire. A glowing ember.

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi whispered, heart in his throat. “Maybe.”

“Good luck,” Wakatoshi said and Kiyoomi nodded.

Luck? Yeah— Yeah, he needed that.

Their conversation then diverged into volleyball. Wakatoshi told him about being in talk of transferring to _Poland’s Orzel Warszawa_ which Kiyoomi had congratulated him for. And when they finally said their goodbyes, Kiyoomi sat in front of his laptop, mind buzzing.

He took a minute to think back to what Wakatoshi had told him.

Had he been ignoring Miya’s efforts in making the two of them closer? Had he been _so blind_ that he hadn’t connected the dots that Miya Atsumu liked him and wanted to be in a relationship with him? Had Kiyoomi been so ignorant that he didn’t realise he _liked_ Miya?

Or was he just in denial?

Now that Kiyoomi knew Miya liked him; had told him again and again, all occasions when they were having sex, Kiyoomi looked back to their relationship.

Kiyoomi had treated sleeping with Miya liked he’d done with Naoya and all his past partners; casual, no strings attached, easy to let go, no complications because Kiyoomi had rules; he had _routines_ to follow. Naoya had never told Kiyoomi he _liked_ him in a romantic sense, only that Kiyoomi was a good _sex_ partner. And so Kiyoomi thought that Miya thought that too, that what they were was just that: sex partners.

But Kiyoomi remembered all the times Miya had been considerate of him. Remembered his hovering hands, remembered his surprise when Kiyoomi first initiated touch, remembered his glee when Kiyoomi let him put _tamagoyaki_ on his plate, remembered Miya who asked Kiyoomi again and again _and again_ how to have anal sex because Miya had never done it before and Kiyoomi was the first person he’d wanted to do it with.

Looking back now, was Miya _giving_ himself to Kiyoomi that night? Kiyoomi remembered his soft eyes, his hushed whispers, his muffled moans, his tears trailing down his cheeks.

Was Kiyoomi so blind all this time that he’d _failed_ to consider that he might have _fallen_ for Miya?

Kiyoomi delved deeper into his emotions.

He thought of high school him who’d dubbed Miya as the _sun_. Because he was so bright and he had this aura in him that just _oozed_ with confidence, with talent, with _hardwork,_ and with _love_ for volleyball. Kiyoomi had been attracted to that, had been jealous of Miya who could wear his heart on his sleeve without thinking about the repercussions.

And even though Miya wasn’t the centre of his world because _volleyball_ was, Miya still was in his mind from time to time.

When Kiyoomi learned that volleyball was _fun_ without winning, Miya had appeared in his mind briefly. And when he’d faced stronger opponents in college, Miya had haunted his dreams, telling him to _work harder, no matter what others said_.

Atsumu had haunted him for _years_.

Thinking about it now, maybe Kiyoomi was the one who fell first.

 _Oh_.  
  


**[ _Higashi-ōsaka: MSBY Arena, 20 March 2019_ ]**   
  


“Nice kill, Bo-kun!”

“TsumTsum, you’re doing so well today!”

“Hey!” Miya thwacked Bokuto on the back of his head, pouting. “I’m always doing well.”

Bokuto laughed, bashful, “Well, you’re more energetic today. Is it because it’s OmiOmi’s birthday?”

Kiyoomi tilted his head, looking at Miya expectantly.

Miya blushed, deep and pretty. He replied, “No. Shut up, Bo-kun.”

Bokuto let out a laugh, one that was loud and attention grabbing. “Aw, TsumTsum, you are so cute!” He pinched Atsumu’s cheek, making the setter scoff and bat his hand away.

“Go away,” Miya grumbled. “Go work on yer jumps. Yer getting old so yer knees are getting weak.”

“No!” Bokuto gasped and sulked on a corner.

“Atsumu-san!” Hinata exclaimed, shaking his head before following Bokuto and comforting him.

“Don’t mind him, Shou,” Miya rolled his eyes. “He’ll get over it.”

“TsumTsum…” Bokuto sobbed, making Hinata pat his head.

“So dramatic,” Miya laughed, small and quiet. “Anyways,” He then looked at Kiyoomi and said, “Happy birthday, OmiOmi!”

“Thank you,” Kiyoomi replied, offering a small smile.

“Am I the last one to greet you? I couldn’t come earlier since I had some errands to do,” Miya pouted, coming to stand beside Kiyoomi.

“Hmm,” Kiyoomi hummed, basking in the feeling of Miya close to him. “Better late than never.”

“True!” Miya laughed then pushed a ball to Kiyoomi’s arms. “Set for me.”

“Set?” Kiyoomi cocked a brow, looking down at the ball then back up at Miya.

“Yeah,” Miya grinned, walking to one of the free nets. “I know you’ve been working on your skills, so show me, OmiOmi?” He asked, hazel eyes bright, almost sparkling.

Kiyoomi stared at him, wondered if this was the perfect moment. Then he blinked and told himself that the right moment would come soon enough.

Later. Hopefully.

“Okay,” Kiyoomi nodded, smiling back. “But don’t bitch at me if it isn’t to your standards.” Kiyoomi scrunched his nose, standing behind the net.

“Of course not,” Miya grinned, standing a few steps away.

Miya started running and Kiyoomi threw the ball to him which Miya threw back, Kiyoomi jumping to set it in a height that he thought Miya preferred. Miya spiked it hard across the net, Kiyoomi watching the ball bounce towards Bokuto and Hinata who were now passing balls between each other.

“Hmm,” Miya hummed, looking at Kiyoomi, smiling. “Could use some work but OmiOmi! Why are ya good with anything, huh?” Miya whined, slapping Kiyoomi’s arm.

Kiyoomi snorted, grabbed Miya’s wrist and said, while grinning, “I just am.”

“Cocky!” Miya kicked his shin, ripping his arm off Kiyoomi’s hold in the process.

“Just telling the truth,” Kiyoomi retorted, smirking.

“I’m letting this go only because it’s yer birthday,” Miya clicked his tongue, looking at Kiyoomi so— _fondly_. There was something else swimming in his gaze and Kiyoomi had to swallow, curious of what it was.

“Oh?” Kiyoomi cocked a brow. “Is that part of your gift to me?” Kiyoomi teased, “You blew my phone off for a week.”

Miya groaned, embarrassed, twirling the ball on the tip of his middle finger. “Well, I wanted to know what ya wanted for yer birthday. How was I s’posed to do it?”

Kiyoomi shrugged, “Talk to me, obviously.”

“Hmpf,” Miya huffed, threw the ball to Kiyoomi harder than before. “Just wait for me after ya finished showering.”

“Alright,” Kiyoomi agreed, smiling.

Miya nodded and Kiyoomi watched him run to Hinata and Bokuto, wrapping an arm around Bokuto who hugged him tightly, almost lifting him off the floor. Kiyoomi observed their interactions, almost feeling like an outsider. But he knew that all he had to do to not feel left out was to go and join them.

Kiyoomi sighed and did some dribble exercises, knowing that the three would join him soon enough.

He smiled, watching the ball.

Jackals made him feel like he belonged.

It was a good feeling.

Practice was now done and Kiyoomi was only waiting for Miya outside the gym. The rest of the team was still inside, Kiyoomi having finished first, his high school habit of showering before anyone else stuck to him until now.

While waiting for Miya, he thought of what he’d resolved himself to do.

He was going to tell Miya what he felt. After thinking about it for a few weeks and talking to Motoya, even his brother and sister about what it meant to _like_ someone, Kiyoomi had realised that he _did_ like Miya.

His sister had told him, “You wouldn’t even ask for advice in the first place if you didn’t like him, Kiyo.”

Kiyoomi had trembled then because _yes_ she was right. He wouldn’t be even thinking about considering a relationship with Miya if he didn’t like Miya.

It was a revelation; an epiphany of some sort that had Kiyoomi’s heart beating faster; had his cheeks blooming red, almost embarrassed, _shy_.

He liked _Miya— no,_ Atsumu.

He liked _Atsumu_.

And Kiyoomi had been waiting for the right time to tell him. Even if Atsumu had moved on—which was a possibility—Kiyoomi wanted to tell him still. He had the rights to know that his feelings were reciprocated, even if it was too late. And because Atsumu had told Kiyoomi his feelings without expecting anything from him.

Brave, beautiful, Atsumu.

Kiyoomi hoped he wasn’t too late.

He crossed his fingers.

Lost in his thoughts, Kiyoomi almost dropped the phone dangling on his hands when a shout reached his ears. Then a pair of arms wrapped around him, leaving Kiyoomi surprised, _frozen._

“ _Kiyo!”_

Kiyoomi blinked, body stiff. _What?_

Before Kiyoomi could do anything, the person hugging him pulled back and _oh—_

“Naoya?”

Naoya grinned, exclaimed, “Yes!” And proceeded to hug Kiyoomi again.

Kiyoomi blinked and started patting Naoya’s back, surprised that his previous teammate and friend was now standing in front of him.

“What are you doing here, Nao?” Kiyoomi asked, pulling back from the hug.

Naoya laughed, patting Kiyoomi’s shoulders. “It’s your birthday, silly! Surprise!”

Kiyoomi pulled his mask down, smiled at Naoya, “Thank you. But you should have called me.”

Naoya clicked his tongue, rolling his eyes, “Then that would ruin the _surprise_ part, Kiyo. Don’t you know the meaning of it?”

Kiyoomi rolled his eyes back at the setter, “I’m saying, what if I was busy?”

“Aw, but we celebrated your birthday together last year! And we didn’t even leave the bed,” Naoya laughed, finally stepping back, giving Kiyoomi his much needed personal space.

“That was because we had a game and—“

“OmiOmi?”

Kiyoomi turned to the voice and found Bokuto, Hinata, and Atsumu standing there, looking at Naoya and him curiously.

“Uh, are we interrupting something, Omi-san?” Hinata asked, looking awkward.

“Omi?” Naoya repeated then nudged Kiyoomi’s shoulder with his own. “They call you Omi?”

“Yeah,” Kiyoomi breathed out, eyes trained on Atsumu.

Atsumu was looking back at him, smile on his face, eyes not betraying anything. He looked— _normal_. Kiyoomi feared he’d heard what they’d been talking about and misunderstood something.

“That’s cute!” Naoya chirped. “Hi, I’m Sato Naoya, Kiyoomi’s college setter and more.” He winked at them, smile on his lips.

“Really?!” Hinata exclaimed, looking at Naoya excitedly. “You played with Omi-san in college?”

“Yepp, that’s right!” Naoya grinned, looking at Hinata. “Who are you _chibi_?”

Hinata scrunched his nose but didn’t say anything at the pet-name. Probably used to it.

“Hinata Shouyou, MSBY Opposite Hitter,” Hinata said, proud.

Naoya laughed again, “Actually, I know. I watch Kiyo’s matches all the time. I live in Tokyo though so I could only watch on the tv.”

“Ah…” Hinata nodded then pointed to Bokuto, “So you know him?” He asked and Naoya nodded. “And him?” He pointed to Atsumu and Naoya nodded again.

“Everyone,” Naoya informed, puffing his chest.

“Wow!” Hinata looked at Naoya like he’d just told him that he was going to win their next game.

“Shou,” Atsumu finally spoke out. “Yer popular now,” He said, laying a hand on Hinata’s shoulder. “Of course he knows ya.”

“That’s right,” Naoya nodded, grinning. “It’s nice to meet you guys but can I steal Kiyo from you?”

“Oh, uh—“ Bokuto started, lifting a hand.

Atsumu grabbed Bokuto’s hand and nodded at Naoya, smiling, soft, “Of course, Naoya-san. He’s yers today.”

“Thank you!” Naoya exclaimed and grabbed Kiyoomi’s wrist, starting to drag him towards his car.

Kiyoomi blinked before whipping his head towards Atsumu who was looking at him with a blank expression on his face.

“Wait—“ Kiyoomi breathed out. “Atsumu—“

Atsumu smiled at him, blinking his eyes, “We can celebrate together later, Omi-kun. Enjoy your day!”

Kiyoomi frowned and bit his lower lip, hard enough that he tasted iron on his tongue. He opened his mouth again, wanting to say _something_ , to refuse, to do _anything._

But Miya nodded at him, mouthed a _Later_ and Kiyoomi closed his mouth, nodding.

Later.

Okay. Later.

Naoya took Kiyoomi to an expensive restaurant in _Kita-ku,_ close to _Umed_ a. They had dinner, made small talk, and ended up walking around, sightseeing.

Then they stopped by the fountain, just outside _JR Osaka Station._ Naoya turned to Kiyoomi, smiling. Like this, he looked— _beautiful_ ; bathed by the lamp light and the moon beaming bright up in the sky, he looked almost _ethereal_.

Then he said, “I like you, Kiyo.” He smiled, “I know we haven’t seen each other for a while but I’ve liked you for so long. My ex-boyfriend came back last month and— I was still thinking of you.”

“Naoya—“

“I know,” Naoya’s smile trembled. “I just want closure. If I didn’t tell you, I don’t think I’ll ever get over my feelings for you.”

“Oh,” Kiyoomi swallowed, feeling like he’s experiencing a deja-vu. “I’m sorry, Naoya… I— I like someone.”

Naoya nodded, biting his lower lip. “It’s okay. I just wanted you to know.”

_I just wanted ya to know._

_Oh._

“Thank you,” Kiyoomi said, feeling like he was suffocating. “Thank you so much, Naoya. And I’m sorry. I hope— I hope you find a better one.”

“Yeah,” Naoya laughed, wet, raspy. “I will. I’m sure of it.”

Kiyoomi nodded, smiled; small, apologetic, “Good.”

After watching the _Shinkansen_ disappear from view, with Naoya sitting on one of its seats, Kiyoomi hurried back to Atsumu.

He couldn’t stop thinking about his expression; that blank, sad, _agonised_ expression on his face when he’d mouthed a _later_ to Kiyoomi. It haunted him the whole time he was with Naoya and haunted him even more when Naoya uttered those familiar words.

Kiyoomi didn’t know _why_ he kept on missing cues from people; from someone who’d been close to him for years to someone who’d done everything to _show_ him that he liked him and even confessed to him.

It felt like he was always looking away, always seeing different things from the others, always late to the _news_.

It was a heavy feeling. Like the sky pushing down on him, dark clouds heavy, a burden.

It felt like he was back on those grey days, when he’d felt nothing but _loneliness_.

But this time, he could only feel _regret_.

It left a sour taste on his mouth.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi breathed out when Atsumu finally opened the door to his apartment.

“Omi?” Atsumu stared at him, eyes wide. “What— are you doing here?”

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi panted, looking at Atsumu, fingers trembling by his side, wanting to touch, to scream, to do _anything_ so Atsumu knew what he was feeling. “Atsumu.”

“Omi?” Atsumu furrowed his brows, reaching out and grasping Kiyoomi’s wrists. “Are ya okay, Omi?”

Kiyoomi nodded, then shook his head, then nodded again. “Yeah… yeah.” Then he pulled Atsumu into a hug, tight, painful. “I’m okay now.”

Atsumu groaned, fingers clutching Kiyoomi’s back. “Okay… What about Naoya-san?”

Kiyoomi shook his head against Atsumu’s neck, breathing in his clean scent. “Left for Tokyo.”

“Oh,” Atsumu blinked then nodded. “Okay… Wanna come inside?”

Kiyoomi didn’t say anything, just hugged Atsumu tighter as he stepped inside. Atsumu pushed him back and grabbed his cheeks with both hands, making Kiyoomi look at him firmly.

“Are you sure yer okay?” He asked, lips pursed.

Kiyoomi nodded and pulled Atsumu into a hard kiss, heart beating faster inside his chest. Atsumu kissed him back right away, tongue tangling with his, fingers coming up to Kiyoomi’s hair, gripping softly.

“Want you,” Kiyoomi whispered against his lips and kissed him back again, biting his lips, licking inside.

“Omi,” Atsumu moaned, pulling Kiyoomi closer.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi whispered back, pulling away to look at Atsumu’s flushed face. “You’re so beautiful.”

Atsumu smiled while panting heavily, “You too, Omi. You’re beautiful, too.”

“Okay?” Kiyoomi whispered, shifting a little, making sure Atsumu is comfortable.

Atsumu nodded, cupping Kiyoomi’s cheeks with his hands, fingers gentle. “Yeah. _Move._ ”

Kiyoomi _moved_ , pulling out and pushing in. He took one of Atsumu’s hands and intertwined it with his, laying them on the white sheets beside Atsumu’s head. Atsumu groaned, thrusting back into Kiyoomi’s movements, blunt nails digging on Kiyoomi’s knuckles.

“Omi, Omi,” Atsumu chanted, legs wrapped around Kiyoomi’s hips tight, secure.

“Atsumu,” Kiyoomi murmured, repeated, “Atsumu.”

Kiyoomi fucked Atsumu slow; thrusts leisurely but deep. It felt like calm waves against the shore, a soft rocking that made his heart bloom in adoration. Atsumu never took his eyes away from his, looking at him with so many emotions swimming in his gaze that it made Kiyoomi feel undeserving. How can _this person;_ this understanding person look at him like that?

Kiyoomi looked back at him, hoped that his eyes told the same story, told Atsumu that he felt the same, that he wasn’t alone in what he was feeling.

“Good,” Atsumu breathed out, chest heaving as he neared orgasm.

Kiyoomi nodded, thrusting faster, deeper. His other hand not intertwined with Atsumu’s own gripping Atsumu’s own hard length, making sure they reach their release at the same time.

When Atsumu started sobbing, begging for Kiyoomi to fuck him harder, fuck him deeper, Kiyoomi leaned his forehead against his and kissed his lips; again and again and again—

Kiyoomi stared at Atsumu’s teary eyes, said, “I like you.” Repeated, “I like you.” And again, “I like you, Atsumu.”

Atsumu swallowed, obvious, loud, while his fingers tightened on Kiyoomi’s own fingers. He blinked, a tear sliding down his temple.

“Omi—“

“I like you,” Kiyoomi confessed, pressing his lips to Atsumu’s wet ones. “I like you.”

Atsumu cried, grip on the back of Kiyoomi’s neck tight, “Thank you.”

“I like you.”

Atsumu came with a loud cry, spurting white liquid on Kiyoomi’s hand. Kiyoomi followed him not long after, coming into the condom.

They didn’t say anything else after.

They cuddled, breathing softly until they fell asleep.

Kiyoomi felt like a heavy weight was taken of his chest, that suffocating feeling gone.

Finally.  
  


**[ _Higashi-ōsaka, Japan: 21 March 2019_ ]**   
  


Kiyoomi woke up to a cold bed.

No note.

No message on his phone.

No missed call.

One e-mail from Coach Foster.

**[ _MSBY Arena_ ]**

“Where is Atsumu?” Kiyoomi asked Hinata, who was whispering with Bokuto.

Kiyoomi had arrived in the gym a few minutes ago after seeing Coach Foster’s e-mail early that morning telling the whole team to come to the gym. He’d tried to call Atsumu but it always went to _voice call_. And he’d tried to message him but no reply came back.

Kiyoomi was _desperate_.

When he’d arrived at the gym, hoping that Atsumu would be there, Kiyoomi immediately looked for him. In the lockers, in the weight room, in the showers, in the court— He wasn’t there.

 _He wasn’t there_.

Hinata looked at him, frowning, “Omi-san doesn’t know?”

“…what don’t I know?” Kiyoomi could feel dread crawling up his throat.

 _No_.

“Atsumu-san left for Tokyo this morning. He wanted to celebrate your birthday with you before leaving but we ended up eating all the cake,” Hinata informed, rubbing his stomach at the mention of cake.

“ _What_.”

“Well, his flight is later today but—“

“Alright, everyone,” Coach Foster clapped his hands against the folder he was holding. Kiyoomi squinted at his smiling face and looked to his side, finding a foreigner standing there.

Dread turned to fear.

“As not everyone knew, Miya’s contract ends this month. A few months ago, Tours VB from France offered him a place in their roster. Not long after, he decided to try it and along with me and the FIVB team in Tokyo, fixed his documents,” He explained, nodding to himself. “And to counteract that, we brought a new setter for everyone to get used to until the start of _Kurowashiki_ Tournament in May. Please welcome Giovanni to the team,” He finished, gesturing for _Giovanni_ to greet the Jackals.

Oh.

Kiyoomi felt his heart drop from his chest, a sudden downfall.

_Oh.  
  
_

**[** _**Hirataka, Osaka, Japan: May 2019 ]**  
_ _(First Kurowashiki Game)_

 _  
_Tachibana Red Falcons _versus_ MSBY Black Jackals.

2 - 3

WIN: _MSBY Black Jackals_

Top Server: _Sakusa Kiyoomi_

Top Scorer: _Ojirou Aran  
  
_

_**[ Paris, France: August 2019 ]**  
  
_

Tours VB _versus_ AS Cannes

3 - 2

WIN: _Tours VB_

Top Server: _Miya Atsumu_

Top Scorer: _Cyril Lachaise_

**[ _Higashi-ōsaka, Japan: November 2019_ ]**

It was in Autumn;

Osaka wasn’t as busy as Tokyo and it made it more calming, a breeze of fresh air. Kiyoomi was used to Tokyo’s bustling streets, loud traffic, and blinding lights from buildings in every corner. But Osaka was refreshing, especially _Higashi-ōsaka_.

 _Higashi-ōsaka_ wasn’t in the centre of Osaka. But it wasn’t out of Osaka either. It sat in the middle, just perfect to Kiyoomi who liked peace but also wanted the convenience of living in the city offered. Kiyoomi liked it here.

Kiyoomi liked Osaka. It reminded him of home, of peace, of happiness.

His phone vibrated on his hand and Kiyoomi smiled at the sender; _mama miya_ showing on the screen.

 _mama miya:  
_ kiyoomi, i have finished making my homemade _umeboshi_.  
come get it soon.

read, 17:05

 _kiyoomi:  
_ i will drive home this weekend.  
thank you.

read, 17:06

 _mama miya:_  
we’ll be waiting!

read, 17:06

Kiyoomi smiled to himself, took a breath once again.

Today was an off-day and Kiyoomi was just walking to the gym to lift some weights and stretch his muscles. The air was crisp, just a little cold and Kiyoomi basked in it.

Autumn was a beautiful season, not only because the air was starting to settle to colder temperature but also because of the leaves continuing to fall from the trees. Every time Kiyoomi stepped on them, it made this soft _crunch_ sound that was so satisfying it lifted Kiyoomi’s mood, made his chest feel _lighter._

Arriving outside the gym, Kiyoomi tilted his head at the lone figure standing by the door. Kiyoomi swallowed, seeing soft blonde hair peeking through a beanie. He quickened his steps, heart thudding inside his chest; faster, harder, like it was about to burst.

And when he stood in front of the person, Kiyoomi was greeted with a bright grin and even brighter hazel eyes.

Kiyoomi breathed in, breathed out.

He smiled, said,

“Welcome back, Atsumu.”

Atsumu smiled, took his hands out of his jacket’s pockets and offered them to Kiyoomi as he said,

“I’m back, Omi.”

Kiyoomi took his hands and gripped them tight.

This time—

This time.

Finally.

**Author's Note:**

> i just noticed i forgot to write the end notes RIP but thank you so so much for reading if you all have read that! 💖 do check the link on twt for the visuals and playlist and more information ☺️ if you have any questions, do comment it or go to my cc linked on my twt! ehe
> 
> you can find me @eatsumus if you wanna interact uwu
> 
> have a nice day! 🥰


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